
Class J-Sy^^ 
Book JB4^^ 
CopightN" 



^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



City Songs 

and 

Country Carols 



By Thomas F. Porter 

'I 




Boston: Richard G. Badger 
The Gorham Press 

1906 



Copyright, 1906, by Thomas F. Porter. 
All Rights Reserved, 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies RoMivod 

OCT 17 1906 

^^.pyr..ht Entry 
CLASS A' 



iKKi cniry 






Printed at The G or ham Press, 
Boston, U. S. A. 



CONTENTS . p^^^ 

Not His II 

What Will Win the World ii 

The Will Is More than Half the Man 12 

When We Turn Our OMce Key. . » 13 

Little Feet across the Floor 13 

Yourself with This Strong Weapon Arm . . 14 

Memories 15 

How Strange It Seems 16 

Broken Idols 17 

The Old Farm House 18 

The Face Against the Pane 19 

My Neighbor's Little Daughter 20 

Rocking Life's Troubles Away 21 

The World Has Troubles of Its Own 22 

An Old Farmer's Philosophy 23 

Tired of the Noise of the City 24 

Come Out of Doors 25 

The Country Will Outlive the Town 26 

The Shady Side 2y 

Closed 2y 

Bereaved 28 

Away 29 

There Is a Heart 30 

''Glenwood," Danvers 30 

Harvest 32 

On This Thanksgiving Day 32 

When Fixings Are Fixed. 33 

Grandma's Dressing 35 

Inch-thick Apple Pies 37 

The Bible Mother Used to Read 38 

Take Thou My Kiss and Sleep till Day .... 39 
She's Getting Gray 40 



PAGE 

Not Old 41 

For Mother's Sake 42 

Her Boy 42 

A Mother's Life 43 

Little Pet, Do Not Forget 44 

Johnny Dunbar 44 

On Easy Street 46 

When Yon Will Think of Dad 48 

He Pays All the Bills 49 

The Lordly Conductor 50 

One from the Crowd 51 

Patrick Gorgan 52 

Ben Franklin 53 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 54 

William Lloyd Garrison 55 

Wendell Phillips 56 

The Dead That Live 57 

The Nation s Heroes 58 

Evacuation Day 60 

The Bartholdi Statvie 61 

Old Glory, Wave! 62 

Crowning Her Dead 63 

No Flowers Too Fair 64 

New England Best 65 

A Mother's Welcome 65 

The Old Flag Never Touched the Ground. . 66 

Abednego Ramsdell 68 

Moll Pitcher 70 

High Rock y2 

To the Lynn Woods 76 

''Howard Villa" 77 

White with Bloom. 78 



I PAGE 

The Song of the Trolley Car 79 

Close Your Eyes and Dream 80 

At Sunset 81 

Two June Roses 81 

The Fernery 82 

Tve Had Good Nezvs Today 83 

Where Grasses First Grow Green 84 

April's Song 85 

How I Wonder What You Are 85 

More Sun than Shade 86 

To a Pansy 86 

It Might Be Well • 86 

Duty 87 

October 89 

A Bridge in the Vale 89 

The Mud 90 

Where Fields Are Green 91 

Beautiful in Death 92 

Song of the March Wind 94 

A Bird and His Song 95 

Boston Public Garden, Sunday Afternoon. . . 96 

Vacation in My Easy Chair 97 

To Let '. 99 

Sow Flower Seeds 99 

The Birds Are Coming Back 100 

A Bruised and Faded Leaf 100 

Impatient loi 

Things Outside Are Calling Me 102 

Seed Time and Harvest 103 

A Breath of June 105 

Compensated 105 

March Winds and April Bloom 106 



PAGE 

Nature's Greeting io6 

A Whole Day Off 107 

The Bird's Reply 108 

The SnowHake 108 

Our New England Robin 109 

Where Is Everybody f no 

An April Flower in 

At the Library in 

/ Think of Thee 112 

And You — Just You 113 

When He Is Gone 113 

What She Would Add 114 

Your Dear, Sweet Face 115 

// All the World Were Good, Like You 116 

Peace Be with You 117 

A Path 117 

The One Dear Face 118 

May Sunshine Fall on You 1 19 

The Reason Why 119 

Simple Gifts 120 

To a Star 121 

The Lover's Good Night 122 

Beautiful to Him 122 

Tell Me 123 

/ Wish You Well 124 

A Rose of Yesterday 125 

Think It Not Strange 125 

Give Me Your Hand! 126 

She Comes 127 

The Songs I Sing 127 

Just as Sweet 128 

Return 128 



PAGE 

A Serenade 129 

Undimnwd by Tears 129 

At the Gate 129 

You Shall Not Go 130 

When I Shall Live 131 

Had I the Gift 131 

When I Was III 132 

Come to Me Tonight! 132 

At Eventide 133 

Let Me Forget 133 

For the Most Part 134 

Somebody Might Have Called on Yon 134 

// in the Yesterdays 135 

Growing Apart 135 

In Memory 136 

The One Wish of a Woman's Heart 137 

Ere She Was Twenty 137 

Where Roses Never Fade 138 

/ Would That You Were Here 139 

To St. Valentine 139 

Forgotten 140 

Be Reconciled 141 

Longingly Tozvard You 142 

Sing Me a Song in the Morning 142 

No Room for Mine 143 

Birthday Verses with Flowers 143 

Come and Make Up 144 

Whatever for Me the Years Unfold 144 

Smoke-Rings 14^ 

We Should be Friends 146 

With Added Interest on the Loan 146 

True Friends 147 



PAGE 

Not Alone 148 

His Home 149 

Where It Leads 149 

Faithful Friends 1 50 

True Wealth 151 

Thy Neighbor 151 

Both May Be Wrong 152 

How about You? 153 

// We hut Know 1 54 

What You Must Be 154 

When You Resolve 155 

Another Day 156 

In a Library 156 

Upon the Threshold 157 

You May Be Wrong 157 

Their Own Way 158 

The World Has Used Me Passing Well 159 

Where Few Live 160 

Travel's Recompense 161 

Your Time Is Worth Far More Elsezvhere. .162 

The Way of the World 162 

Still Fashionable 164 

The Obscure Man's Consolation 165 

How Much It Means to Be a Man 166" 

Things We Are Going to Do 167 

In Black 168 

A Bright Friend 168 

Not Introduced 169 

Help Us Laugh 171 

My Rival 171 

Tomorrow All May Be Reversed 172 

The Old Speckled Hen 173 



PAGE 

If You hut Will It So 174 

Not with Folded Hands 175 

The Empty Pew 175 

// You Should Chance to Pass My W ay.. iy6 

The Real Friend 177 

Not in Vain 177 

The Town of Despair 178 

The Town of Content 179 

Earth's True Workingmen 181 

Not True 182 

The Rich 183 

A Battle 184 

Quick and Slow 185 

With Glasses on Their Eyes 186 

The Spendthrift 187 

They Cannot Rob Us of the Past. 188 

To a Poet 189 

If but the Heart Be Right 190 

We Charge It up to Fate 190 

Out of the Way 191 

The Man and the Poet 192 

Our World 192 

On Your Way Home 193 

Not on the Map 193 

Beyond the Peaceful Stars 194 

The Other One 195 

Success 195 

Why Should You Care 196 

A Laugh for a Laugh 197 

The Fall of the Curtain 199 

The Legislative Crazy Quilt .201 

Poor Mathematics 202 



/ 



PAGE 

He Ozved Himself 202 

When Yoii Are Dozvn 203 

Chasing a Dollar 204 

A Welcome to the New Year 205 

To Crown the Years 206 

Where His Gifts Will Go 207 

The Sand Garden 208 

Has No Interpreter 209 

A Different Tenement 210 

The Strange Companion 211 

Our Local Sage 212 

Presentation Verses 213 

Capital and Labor 215 

The Flame Fighters 216 

Hurrah for the Builders of Lynn 218 

The Bounds Are Set 219 

Better Things 219 

Young Hopeful .220 

My Bridge 221 



NOT HIS 

The words a poet^neaks are not his words, 
Else in them woSiJ the world take small de- 
light, 

But syllables of meadows, hills and birds — 
The language of the morning, noon and night. 

Not his thoughts only does the poet think, — 
By reading others' minds, they too have part ; 

By his revealing, each may be a link, 
In joy or sorrow, to bind heart to heart. 

All dreams a poet dreams are not his own — 
They visit him when he in slumber lies, 

To help him point the way unto some throne 
To which another soul may dare to rise. 

So, poet, speak and dream and calmly think ! 

Your eyes turn inward, yet look forth afar, 
That thro' you we may reach at least the brink 

Of knowing what life is, and what we are. 



WHAT WILL WIN THE WORLD 

If in your heart two songs you find. 

Some morn, at rise of sun, 
One sad, one gay, and have in mind 

To sing the world but one. 
Ah, do not hesitate, I pray. 

What course you should pursue. 
For if you sing the song that's gay. 

You win the world to you. 

But if, perchance, you half decide 
The sad song you should sing. 

Let me to you this much confide: 
You do an unwise thing. 

11 



For it has been believed so long, 
And time has proved it true, 

That if you sing too sad a song 
You drive the world from you. 



THE WILL IS MORE THAN HALF 

THE MA(N 

The claim I make is strong and bold, 
And yet disprove the same who can, 

Whether of big or little mold, 

The will is more than half the man. 

The men who scale the heights of fame, 
Leaving the aimless throng below, 

And chisel there a deathless name, 
Are those alone who will it so. 

Whoever turns the written page 

To see by what mysterious skill 
Men stamp themselves upon their age, 

Will find that it is force of will. 

Why idly prate that fortune, luck. 
Aids men some great work to fulfill ? 

Away with this; blind guides! 'Tis pluck, 
Determination, courage, will. 

Luck does not guide the artist's hand 
To paint those forms which live for aye. 

Nor cause the sculptor's work to stand, 
Deathless in marble, bronze or clay. 

Luck never made a martyr strong 
To suffer for the truth and right. 

Luck never wrote a deathless song. 
Or armed a chieftain for the fight. 

12 



The claim I make is strong and bold. 

And yet disprove the same who can. 
Whether of big or little mold, 

The will is more than half the man. 



WHEN WE TURN OUR OFFICE KEY 

The day brings cares to you and me, 

As both of us quite often find ; 
So, when we turn our office key. 

We ought to leave them all behind. 

For if they vex us all day long. 

Our minds distract, our hands make thin, 
We do ourselves a cruel wrong. 

Unless we. simply lock them in. 

Or if they do not harm us much, 

When we are strong and day is bright, 

They at our very vitals clutch. 

When we are tired and worn at night. 

E'en when the hour for rest draws near, 
The time for quiet, peaceful sleep. 

In shapes unwelcome they appear, 

Or ghost-like 'round our pillows creep. 

Then, since they love not you nor me. 
And we can ne'er their favor win. 

Nights, when we turn our office key. 
We'd better safely lock them in. 



LITTLE FEET ACROSS THE FLOOR 

I hear the sound of little feet 

Above my head, upstairs, tonight. 

Which makes my evening hour sweet 
And fills me with a strange delight. 

13 



Go, little feet, across the floor! 

Tho' some might deem your sport as noise; 
It takes me back to days of yore 

And brings again departed joys. 

Go, little feet, across the floor! 

Turn back, and cross, and cross again, 
Nor yet your pleasant sport give o'er ; 

From out my heart you drive the pain. 

Go, little feet, across the floor ! 

Your noise I have with music classed; 
Your footsteps open memory's door. 

And bring me back a happy past. 



YOURSELF WITH THIS STRONG 
WEAPON ARM 

Today my boy goes out from me, 

And, tho' half glad, still comes a sigh ; 

I fear he is too pure to see 
The pitfalls that about him lie. 

The dear old home today he leaves. 

As most boys will, as most boys should ; 

Tho' pleased I seem, yet my heart grieves, 
For he has always been so good. 

I have not sight to trace the way 
His feet will travel^ far or near; 

And tho' consenting, feel today 
Within my eyes a gathering tear. 

Yet I can only hope this much, 
Whenever tempted, day or night, 

Home's influence his heart will touch 
And keep him in the path of right. 

14 



My precious boy, goodby, adieu! 

Yourself with this strong weapon arm — 
To self and mother e'er be true 

And naught on earth your soul can harm. 



MEMORIES 

He halts on the steps of his dwelling, 

O'er which he once went with a bound ; 
And, when he finds courage to enter, 

His sadness and grief are profound. 
The smile that once cheered him has vanished, 

The place does not seem as of old ; 
A chair at his fireside is empty, 

His hearthstone is cheerless and cold. 

He visits each room and apartment 

Her presence and smile used to grace ; 
He stands near the stairway, still longing 

To catch but one glimpse of her face. 
He calls her by names of affection 

He learned in the years hurried by. 
But, back through the gloom and the darkness, 

There comes not a word of reply. 

He looks o'er her dresses, her jewels, 

The gems that she wore when a bride, 
The chain with the charm and the locket, 

The ring with their names cut inside ; 
He weeps o'er her laces, her picture. 

Till darkness and gloom fill the air, 
And the clock tells the hour of midnight. 

And his heart nearly breaks in despair. 

At last, in his arm-chair, o'er weary. 
His eyes past all knowledge of sight. 

He reclines, till the newcoming morrow 
Throws over his face its sunlight. 

15 



The blackness of night has departed, 
But not so his heart's deepest pain, 

But, for him she has left in his keeping. 
He takes up life's burdens again. 

Ah, mystery of mysteries profoundest — 

This passing away in a sleep. 
From which the bright eyes ne'er reopen. 

No matter how loved ones may weep. 
But be this the hope of the future — 

When heaven's bright portals are gained. 
This wonderful mystery of mysteries. 

In goodness may all be explained. 



HOW STRANGE IT SEEMS 

How strange it seems when, in the morn, I wake 
And go the parlor and the hallway through, 

E'en to the sitting room a visit make, 
And find not you ! 

How strange to at the table take my place, 
And, seated in the old, familiar chair. 

To look across and see not the dear face 
That once was there. 

It seems so strange for me to start away 
To meet the duties that before me lie. 

And hear no word from lips that used to say 
Some sweet good-bye. 

And when, at last, the long day's task is o'er. 
And night across the sky her veil has drawn, 

How strange it seems, on opening the door. 
To find you gone. 



16 



BROKEN IDOLS 

What tho' my neighbors think my income good, 
And that I have an average share of pleasure, 

How many things I would change, if I could, 
To bring them up to youth's o'er-hopeful 
measure. 

What tho' the carpet, on the parlor floor, 

Is rich enough in warp and woof and border, 

And that the curtains, o'er my chamber door. 
Are hung in stately and refining order ? 

What tho' the pictures, that adorn the walls. 
The inner life to noble thoughts awaken, 

And from my grand piano music falls 

When twilight shades the day's glare have o'er- 
taken ? 

What tho' the books, which lie in every room, 
Would yield the owner many a shining dollar, 

Since on each leaf thoughts richly bud and bloom 
Which well might please a poet, sage or schol- 
ar? 

What tho' the tidies, on my easy chair. 

Were deftly wrought by hands both true and 
tender, 

And, in the hallway, statues rich and rare 

Add to my habitation's worth and splendor? 

What tho' some laughter mingles with my talk? 

Oftimes within there is a secret sighing. 
Because I stumble, when alone I walk. 

O'er broken idols in the great room lying. 



17 



THE OLD FARM HOUSE 

Back from the road, a little way, 

The dear old farm house stands ; 
It bears the touch of dark decay 

From time's unpitying hands. 
The shingles on the long, wide roof 

Are nearly black in hue. 
But held there, as a living proof 

That good hands laid them true. 

Tall is the chimney, huge in size, 

Where smoke-stains you may trace, 
Which no fierce gale can e'er surprise 

Or force from out its place. 
The windows, and the window panes. 

Are neither large nor few. 
About which coursed for years the rains. 

And many eyes looked through. 

Sunshine and shadow 'round it play 

From early morn till night; 
And now, as seen 'neath moonlight's ray, 

My heart thrills at the sight. 
The flowers that blossom 'round the door 

Their fragrances unfold. 
And smile across the old porch floor. 

Just as they did of old. 

The mighty elms, whose fair leaves form 

A beauty of their own, 
Still stand to shield it from the storm. 

And nearer heaven have grown. 
The kitchen floor is snowy white, 

And peace seems everywhere, 
Just as it did that happy night 

I first found shelter there. 



18 



Altho' the years their changes show, 

And old-time beauties stay, 
My heart must still the sorrow know — 

One light has passed away : 
I turn my longing eyes in vain, 

One loving face to see — 
I ne'er shall look upon again — 

Who once was all to me. 

About the dear old homestead still 

Will linger memories sweet ; 
A tryst is there, that brings heart-thrill, 

Where in my dreams we meet. 
So, if about the old farm place 

There seem no changes great, 
The absence of that one loved face 

Makes all else desolate. 



THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE 

How I shall miss, against the pane, 

The face with eyes of blue. 
Surrounded by the soft brown hair 

The sun loved to shine through ; 
And, though the memory of her smile 

My future years should grace. 
When by the house I ride or walk. 

How I shall miss her face ! 

The house will stand the same as now ; 

The window will remain; 
The winter's snow with it will play, 

As will the summer's rain ; 
And, though upon the window pane 

The sun his beams will pour, 
The face that flooded it with light 

Mine eyes will see no more. 

19 



I watched that face, with cheeks once red 

As any flowers that grow, 
Until, as passed the weary months. 

It grew as white as snow; 
And though, when I to her sent flowers. 

Her cheeks would color gain. 
The blushes did not long remain, 

So they grew pale again. 

And so the sweet face paled and paled; 

Until, one starless night. 
It grew so very worn and thin. 

It faded from our sight; 
And she, dear child, with noiseless feet 

The silent vale passed through. 
And now I have no little girl 

To send sweet flowers to. 



MY NEIGHBOR'S LITTLE DAUGHTER 

I see her almost every day 

In her neat dress of spotless white ; 

And, as she trips across the way, 
I greet her with delight. 

Her head is crowned with soft light curls. 
While brightly shine her hazel eyes ; 

And she looks sweet as many girls 
Of greater age and size. 

A melody springs from the tread 

Of her two cunning little feet; 
And, as her cheeks are plump and red, 

I know they must be sweet. 

A flower between her finger tips 

She often brings for me to view, 
And this I hear from her pure lips — 

*T picked this one for you." 

20 



Whate'er at noontide or at morn, 
Of good or ill, life's hours impart, 

At twilight, by the rose-fringed lawn. 
Her smile still cheers my heart. 

And, O ! she has so many charms 
For such a tiny human speck ; 

But, best of all, her little arms 
Can just reach 'round my neck. 

Whichever way fate turns my face. 
Toward mountain high, or lake or sea, 

Within my heart will be a place 
For memories of thee. 



ROCKING LIFE'S TROUBLES AWAY 

Aunt Hannah Delaney, who lived years ago, 
And whom 'twas my pleasure to lovingly know, 
Though never addicted to powders and pills, 
A remedy had for the most of life's ills. 
'Twas this : she would sit, at the close of the day, 
In a little low chair, and would rock them away. 

That little old rocker, how well I recall ; 

The seat was quite broad and the back rather tall, 

Both padded with cushions, made by her own 

hands. 
And tied to the chair with bright ribbon bands. 
With which the house cat loved so dearly to play, 
While Hannah sat rocking life's troubles away. 

Should the cares of the day her happiness spoil, 
Should her husband come home out of sorts from 

his toil. 
The children be fretful and peevish and bad. 
And other things mingle to make her heart sad. 
When evening came on, whether winter or May, 
She quietly rocked all her troubles away. 

21 



When neighbors near by felt a Httle inclined 
To say things to trouble the peace of her mind, 
No matter how much through the day she was 

vexed, 
At night full forgiveness for all was her text ; 
Nor the rule to forget did she e'er disobey. 
While quietly rocking life's troubles away. 

How plain I can see her tonight in her chair, — 
A white cap on her head, the frost in her hair, 
A shawl o'er her shoulders that left her hands 

free, 
As she knitted away as fast as could be. 
While the glow on her face had a heavenly ray, 
As she sat there a rocking life's troubles away. 

No matter what came, and no matter what went, 
Whate'er to annoy her the day might invent. 
Throughout the long years this had been her be- 

Hef, — 
The lone evening hours would bring her relief. 
And so, when the darkness without held full 

sway. 
The care from her heart she would rock all away. 

O, how often I wish, when bowed down 'neath 

some smart, 
When weary in body and broken in heart, 
I could feel that the evening was waiting for me, 
My mind from all sorrow and care to set free. 
That I, too, like her at the close of the day. 
Might quietly rock all my troubles away. 

THE WORLD HAS TROUBLES OF ITS 
OWN 

Why waste your time in foolish tears — 
What is the use to sigh and moan? 

Pour not your ills in other's ears ! — 
The world has troubles of its own. 
22 



What is the use to grieve and weep, 
Thro' other's Hves to send a groan ? 

'Twere best to self one's grief to keep ; 
The world has troubles of its own. 

Of course 'tis sad, e'en at the best, 
For one to have to weep alone ; 

But then your case is like the rest, 
For all have troubles of their own. 

If you must weep, go weep awhile, 
Until your troubles all have flown ; 

Then change your teardrops to a smile ; 
The world has troubles of its own. 

AN OLD FARMER'S PHILOSOPHY 

Well, yes; I am a farmer, sir. You know that 

by my looks ; 
The little learnin' that I have was not obtained 

from books. 
Book-learnin's good for city folks ; but, sir, I am 

afraid 
It would not help me very much when I my oxen 

trade. 

What tho' I don't use classic words, or pleasing 

ways possess. 
That does not make my 'tater patch yield me one 

'tater less; 
An', if I knew all that's been wrote since the 

creation's morn. 
How many kernels do you think 'twould add unto 

my corn? 

You say you sleep an' eat by rule. Well, sir, 

come home with me, 
An' for each slice of ham you'll eat. Twill take 

care of three; 

23 



An' what you eat don't help you much, for, if 

I've rightly giiessed. 
You haven't any room for ham, for ham you 

can't digest. 

What great use is your learnin', sir? How are 
you by it blest ? 

The tailor made your shoulders broad an' padded 
out your chest; 

Your foot is very small indeed, you wear a gen- 
teel shoe ; 

Well, friend, I can go out an' buy a pair as cheap 
as you. 

What if you know each star by name ? That does 

not make you strong; 
Your looks show you are needin' rest — I sleep 

the whole night long. 
You dose yourself the twelve months round with 

powders an' with pills — 
My medicine comes down from heaven across 

the grand old hills. 

I work twelve solid hours a day, but that is no 

disgrace ; 
I cannot speak for you, young man, but I am in 

my place. 
You say that I am green as grass? I'll say this 

in reply: 
Green is the color, all admit, most gracious to 

the eye. 



TIRED OF THE NOISE OF THE CITY 

I'm tired of the noise of the city. 

Its tumult and care and deceit ; 
I long for the peace of the meadows. 

Where flowers bloom fragrant and sweet; 

24 



How vain is the smile of the many, 
How empty the laugh of the throng ; 

I long to commune with great nature 
And list once again to her song. 

How worthless the glare of the tinsel, 

How empty the bubble of show; 
How senseless the studied expressions 

That flatt'rers are wont to bestow! 
While nature deals with us so nobly, 

Without the veneerings of art, 
The welcome she gives us is honest — 

She speaks to each one from her heart. 

What is there in pomp and in power 

So many possess to abuse? 
The one stirs the envy of pygmies ; 

The other, let him who will choose. 
I fly from the city's great clamor. 

Where men use deception to please. 
And lay my head down on the hillside 

To rest and to dream 'neath the trees. 



COME OUT OF DOORS 

Come out of doors, the day invites, 
In moving strains the air implores ; 

Come out and see the mystic rites 
Nature performs here, out of doors. 

Come out of doors, where grasses spring 
And flowers bloom to please the eye; 

List to the birds, that chirp and sing 
As they go winging thro' the sky. 

Come out of doors, where fields are wide. 
Up to the hilltops rise and stand ; 

Your little self in vastness hide, 

While Nature holds you by the hand. 



Come out of doors, where there is space; 

The city's street with tumult wars ; 
Nature would meet you face to face, 

Here, where 'tis peaceful, out of doors. 



THE COUNTRY WILL OUTLIVE THE 
TOWN 

Come to the woods ! Forget the street 
Where traffic's noisy wheels are heard, 

And with those soul-inspirers meet — 
The murmuring pine and singing bird. 

Let us forget the lines of care 

That on our faces deeply press, 
And breathe awhile the perfect air 

That longs to make our troubles less. 

What means this endless toil and strife, 
The wish to seek and win and hold? 

There is a better, grander life 
Outside of titles and of gold. 

Tho' men may study to deceive, 

And to their aid call every art — 
Great Nature loves alone to weave 

Her truths around the trusting heart. 

When piles of brick in ruins lie. 

And wealth and power are both laid low; 

In valley sweet, on hilltop high. 

The grass, the flowers, the trees will grow. 

Men may tear down the forest fair 

To build themselves a fleeting crown ; 
But, 'neath great Nature's fostering care, 



ur, neatn great iNature s lostermg i 
The country will outlive the town. 

2fi 



When our weak hands shall cease to strive, 
And from our grasp all power has past, 

Mature, her heart with love alive, 
Will take us to herself at last. 

THE SHADY SIDE 

She lives upon the sunny side, 

Where shadows seldom stray ; 
And 'round her door sweet flowers hide 

Their blossoms night and day. 
Her home sends forth a cheerful ray. 

And all around seems bright 
And radiant as a holiday, 

With sunshine and delight. 

Her wants are lavishly supplied 

With each returning morn. 
And every whim is gratified 

That could a life adorn. 
Today she may go there or here — 

Tomorrow walk or ride ; 
And thro' the hours of all the year. 

Live on life's sunny side. 

Her home is not so unlike mine — 

Only a change or two — 
And, tho' 'round mine some sunbeams shine, 

I have the shadows too. 
The way is not so very far 

That does our homes divide. 
Yet she lives where the sunbeams are — 

I on the shady side. 

CLOSED 

The house is closed, the curtains drawn. 
Dust gathers on the window panes ; 

No light creeps thro' the rooms at dawn. 
And desolation reigns. 

27 



The walk is overrun with weeds, 
The lawn is being trampled down; 

A stray dog for admission pleads — 
And she is out of town. 

The news-man hurries by the door 
With disappointment on his face ; 

The postman rings the bell no more, 
Deserted is the place. 

The house is standing there, 'tis true ; 

And tho' it seems deserted quite, 
With hope the darkness I peer thro' 

To see the evening light. 

Little I seemed to think or care 
The day she left, a while to roam ; 

But I'm so homesick, I declare 
I wish she would come home. 



BEREAVED 

I rocked my baby boy to sleep 

One day in rosy June, 
Just as the stars came forth to peep 

Playfully at the moon. 
My faithful dog lay on the hearth, 

And near me sat my wife, 
Which made that hour to rank in worth 

With the best of my life. 

I kissed his lips in ecstasy, 

His lips so soft and red. 
And fancied that he looked like me 

(He had his father's head) ; 
And then I thought with joy my heart 

Would be filled to the brim, 
If I with much of self could part. 

And so be more like him. 

28 



For e'er I laid him down to rest, 

I watched his face a while, 
When thro' his rich, red lips there pressed 

A holy, happy smile. 
Which proved no sin or thought of wrong 

Dwelt in his youthful heart. 
Unlike us older ones, called strong, 

Whose smiles are chiefly art. 

Today a sorrow broods o'er me 

Greater than e'er before. 
Because mine eyes shall never see 

That darling baby more. 
And yet I very frankly own 

I should not be so sad 
Because, tho' gone, that babe has grown 

Into a thoughtful lad. 

AWAY 

I passed her house ; the blinds were closed, 

And in a web his genius spun 
Across the door, a spider dozed. 

And bathed him in the summer sun. 

A sadness brooded 'round the trees ; 

Neglect left all about forlorn, 
Because no bird-note thrilled the breeze, 

And dust was gathering on the lawn. 

The drooping flowers ceased to pour 
Their fragrance out upon the air 

As freely as in days of yore; 

They seemed to miss her tender care. 

The passing zephyrs failed to pause, 
And 'round her chamber walls to play ; 

The only reason was because, 

Like me, they knew she was away. 

29 



I wonder will she not return 

Ere deeper grows the threatening gloom? 
Then birds will all their songs relearn, 

The lawn grow green, the flowers bloom, 

The spider from his web move out. 
The blinds be opened by her hand, 

And house and lawn and all about 

By sunshine's glorious arch be spanned. 

THERE IS A HEART 

There is a heart that dotes on you, 

When days are short or days are long, 

A heart that always deems you true, 
And far too brave to do a wrong. 

There is a heart that longs for you 

However many may be near ; 
Whose thoughts your wandering ways pursue 

Thro' all the phases of the year. 

There is a heart that waits for you 
With all the patience of the stars, 

And naught you do, or fail to do, 
Its trust and faith unbounded mars. 

There is a heart that prays for you 

In words sincere and void of art; 
When nights are dark or skies are blue — 

It is your dear old mother's heart. 

"GLENWOOD," DANVERS 

If you are tired of noise and heat. 

And city life has lost its charm. 
Come with me to that bless'd retreat 

Known to loved hearts as "Glenwood Farm." 

30 



Sit 'neath the grand, majestic trees, 

With symmetry and beauty rife, 
And let the flower-scented breeze 

Pour in your veins its own pure Hfe. 

Walk forth where cattle crown the hills, 
And view the matchless scene around, 

While music from the distant rills 
Fills you with melody profound. 

Ere yet 'tis noon, pause by the spring 

Whose waters seem from Heaven to start. 

And hear New England's song-birds sing 
The notes that are unspoiled by art. 

Pass down the crooked, stone-walled lane. 
Where vines and squirrels love to run, 

And view afar the fields of grain 
Making obeisance to the sun. 

As day is drawing to its close, 

Draw near the spot where tall pines wave 
Above the forms that there repose. 

Who live again beyond the grave. 

This need not the day's pleasure mar. 

Or fill your spirit with alarm. 
For thoughts may come to you from 'far, 

To do you good instead of harm. 

'Twill help recall one to your side 

Who has passed death's dark mystery through, 
Whose joy it was once to divide 

The happiest scenes of life with you. 

Feast from the fruit of stalk and vine. 
The milk that's pure, the eggs fresh laid. 

And health 'round weary forms will 'twine 
That have from vigor's path been swayed. 

31 



When through the red gate, by the road, 
Toward home you draw your horse's rein. 

Life's burdens will seem less a load, — 
You then feel young and strong again. 

HARVEST 

Another year has crowned the toil 
Of active brain and willing hand. 

And from the richness of the soil 
The harvest comes to bless the land. 

The faith, that moved the hand to sow 
The seed at Springtime's early dawn, 

Has seen the blade put forth and grow 
Into the full ripe ear of corn. 

And, while the farmer raised his grain, 
'Mid summer's heat and rain and sun, 

The merchant in his hope for gain 
His share of profit, too, has won. 

And when these classes both are blessed, 
Tho' some win more and others less. 

Plenty draws near to all the rest. 
Whose patient toil deserves success. 

Then let each aged heart rejoice. 

And youthful tongues with songs be gay. 

While all unite, in one loud voice 

Of thanks, on our Thanksgiving day. 

ON THIS THANKSGIVING DAY 

Whate'er the year to us has brought. 

Of sunshine or of cloud, 
If we are glad in heart and thought 

Or 'neath some sorrow bowed, 

32 



If we are suffering a wrong, 

Or are our spirits gay, 
Come, let us join in happy song 

On this Thanksgiving day. 

Few receive all for which they pray, 

Yet all some blessings know 
For which 'tis fitting, on this day, 

Our gratitude to show. 
Turn over leaves of bygone years. 

We'll find there, hidd'n away, 
More cause for gladness than for tears 

On each Thanksgiving day. 

This world of ours has ups and downs 

For everyone that lives ; 
And, tho' on us at times it frowns 

Its smiles it oftener gives. 
Then let us all, both far and near, 

Our best instincts obey. 
And sing a song of happy cheer 

On this Thanksgiving day. 

But, if our souls are bowed and sad. 

So that we cannot sing 
A song whose every note is glad, 

So it with joy will ring. 
Then, tho' our eyes with tears are dim, 

At least in praise we may 
Sing, — tho' a less exultant hymn, — 

On this Thanksgiving day. 

WHEN FIXINGS ARE FIXED 

When the fixings are fixed for our Thanksgiving 

Day, 
When the fowl have been killed that no longer 

will lay. 
When the turkey is stuffed as 'twas ne'er stuffed 

before — 

33 



And which is to be eaten, though it eats no 

more — 
When the odor of luscious plum pudding invites, 
With rare fruits, nuts and raisins, and other de- 
lights. 
Then, if I'm to be with you, fail not to supply, 
When the fixings are fixed, an old-time pumpkin 
pie. 

When the fixings are fixed for the Thanksgiving 

feast — 
Among other things cranberries are not the 

least — 
When the table-cloth's spread with the nicest of 

care, 
And in its right place is each napkin and chair. 
What each sauce shall contain ingeniously 

planned. 
When the old dinner bell has been placed near 

at hand, 
If 'tis not too much trouble with this comply. 
Let us have, for a round-up, deep-dish pumpkin 

pie! 

When the fixings are fixed of which all may par- 
take, 

When the old and the young one gla'd company 
make. 

When the big table groans 'neath its festival 
wealth. 

And when each one may drink to another's best 
health. 

If I am to be with you on Thanksgiving Day, 

When rich draughts of sweet cider our praises 
repay, 

When you're fixing the fixings, this plea don't de- 

That you round up the feast with a big pumpkin 
pie! 

34 



Such a one I would like as again will recall 

The glad days when grandmother made pies for 
us all; 

Even now I remember with unalloyed joy 

The deep pies she baked for me when I was a 
boy, 

From the great yellow pumpkins I used to bring 
in 

By the stem, from my grandfather's well crowd- 
ed bin. 

Now dear grandmother's sleeping that long 
dreamless sleep. 

Whose good heart was too big not to make her 
pies deep. 

When the fixings are fixed for our Thanksgiving 
Day, 

When the fowl have been killed that no longer 
will lay, 

When the turkey is stuffed as 'twas ne'er stufifed 
before — 

And which is to be eaten, though it eats no 
more — 

When the odor of luscious plum pudding invites, 

With rare fruit, nuts and raisins, and other de- 
lights. 

Then, if I'm to be with you, fail not to supply, 

When the fixings are fixed, an old-time pumpkin 
pie. 

GRANDMA'S DRESSING 

Whate'er amount of patient care 

Our modern women take, 
On ev'ry glad Thanksgiving Day, 

The turkey well to bake ; 
However full each passing hour, 

They fill with dainties good. 
No one the "dressing" can make taste 

As dear old grandma could. 
35 



They may be up the night before 

Until the hour is late, 
Have ashes from the stove removed 

And rust from off the grate; 
They may with coal be well supplied 

And handy have the wood, 
But they the dressing cannot, make 

As dear old grandma could. 

'Tis true the dear saint tried to teach 

Her daughters how 'twas done, 
And o'er the diff'rent points with them 

A hundred times has run; 
She told them not to nervous get, 

And nothing good to waste. 
And yet the main point they forget, 

And leave out half the taste. 

The cloth their loving fingers spread 

Is beautiful to view. 
The forks and knives are costlier far. 

As is the crockery, too; 
Silver may deck the damask rich. 

The napkins faultless laid, 
But ah! the dressing is not like 

What dear old grandma made. 

The ancient name by which 'twas called 

Has vanished with the years, 
And if one speaks of "stuffing" now. 

It shocks our modern ears ; 
But, talk and argue as we may. 

The art she understood, 
While few could fill the bird as full 

As dear old grandma could. 

Around the table there is not 
One seat, this year, to spare. 

But who is there that would not rise 
And give to her his chair? 

36 



And, tho' she has been sleeping long, 

The memory ne'er can fade 
Of her who loved us all so much 

And such good dressmg made. 

INCH-THICK APPLE PIES 

Long years ago, when but a lad. 

And folks to me were good, 
I used to call on other boys 

In our small neighborhood; 
And 'mong the scenes at this late day, 

That oft before me rise. 
Is Bobby Goodheart's mother's cot, — 

And inch-thick apple pies. 

No matter if the crop was short 

And cooking apples high, 
Bob's mother always had on hand 

A very good supply ; 
And tho' no doubt in other ways 

She often had to pinch. 
Her juicy, well-browned apple pies. 

In depth were just an inch. 

How often on my way from school. 

E'en when a little late, 
I used to pause and chat with Bob 

Beside her humble gate ; 
And when she oped the door and smiled 

A smile right from the heart — 
It meant for me to follow Bob — 

No effort on my part. 

Her cottage was a modest one. 
The chairs were old and plain, 

But the big table where we ate 
Will always rich remain; 
37 



And if no costly cloth was spread 

To cover up the wood, 
Those deep molasses apple pies 

Would make a bad boy good. 

Bob has become a business man, 

But often when we meet — 
Within a densely-crowded car, 

Or on the busy street — 
I take him warmly by the hand 

And look into his eyes, 
And close my lips and seem to taste 

The flavor of those pies. 

Bob's mother has got thro' with earth. 

And gone beyond the skies, 
Where it is said, that even boys 

No longing have for pies ; 
But when Bob's time is up, and mine, 

In this old world of sin. 
If she sees us near heaven's gate, 

Methinks she'll call us in. 



THE BIBLE MOTHER USED TO READ 

Among the books I prize and own 

Is one that I hold doubly dear, 
Nor can I e'er be quite alone 

So long as that one book is near. 

For, when so e'er to it I turn. 

If stars shine forth, or lights burn low. 
Somehow to me there will return 

The one who read it long ago. 

A lig-ht divine shines 'round the place, 
That casts its beams to every nook; 

And I behold again the face 

Of her, who loved to read that book. 

38 



And if the night outside be drear. 

And beats the storm against the pane, 

I hsten — and I seem to hear 
The music of her voice again. 

The years have left on it their stains, 
The covers are defaced and old; 

And yet that Httle book retains 
For me a vakte more than gold. 

So, whate'er changes time may bring. 
As on toward her I daily speed, 

I to that book will ever cling — 
The Bible mother used to read. 



TAKE THOU MY KISS AND SLEEP 
TILL DAY 

Good night ! The weary day is done ; 

The curtains of the night are drawn ; 
The stars shine forth where burned the sun ; 

Take thou my kiss, and rest till dawn. 

The tumult of the day is o'er ; 

The time for peace and rest is born ; 
And, as you pass sleep's noiseless door. 

Take thou my kiss, and sleep till morn. 

The time for thought and care is past, 

Thy head upon thy pillow lay. 
Thine eyelids close secure and fast, 

And take my kiss, and sleep till day. 

And so good night, my child, my sweet ! 

Close up thy mind to sense and light, 
Tomorrow we again shall meet; 

Take thou thy mother's kiss, — good night ! 

39 



SHE'S GETTING GRAY 

She used to have such tresses dark and long, 
Fit subject for a poet's praiseful song — 
They seemed to hold the shadows of the night, 
E'en when the day was overcharged with light; 
But now I hear her nearest neighbors say 
She's getting gray. 

Around her ears, flushed with their pinkest hues, 
Such lovely spots as beauty loves to choose. 
Her long, dark tresses used to rise and float, 
A striking contrast to her swan-like throat; 
But time's white post has lately passed her way — 
She's getting gray. 

From her fair forehead, high, yet often grave. 
Backward her long rich tresses used to wave. 
While in them dwelt that charm we find nowhere 
But in the meshes of a woman's hair ; 
But time with fairest locks her pranks will 
play — 
She's getting gray. 

O'er her dark locks how oft has passed her hand, 
How oft the sunbeams played with each long 

strand. 
How many a flower has yielded, with delight, 
Its breath to tresses that will soon be white ; 
For e'en her dearest friends admit today 
She's getting gray. 

The' beauteous still, no words can it disguise, 
Because 'tis plain e'en to the friendliest eyes; 
As I gaze on her hair once wondrous black. 
How many mem'ries of the past come back! 
Since I one lock have fondly laid away, 
Ere she grew gray. 



40 



NOT OLD 
(A Son's Tribute To His Mother) 

Where braids of brown hair used to rest, 
Now waves of gray her brow enfold, 

Yet none of all who know her best. 
E'er speak of her as being old. 

Though daughters for her health inquire, 
And many sons her coming greet, 

And though her cheeks have lost their fire 
And bleached to white, they still are sweet. 

Her hands that once were soft and round, 
Although less nimble than they were. 

In doing good deeds still are found. 
Which seems but natural to her. 

Although before her kindly eyes 

A pair of spectacles appear. 
Look not upon it with surprise ; 

Time has but made her sight more clear. 

Although the sounds of many years 
Her hearing may have dulled a mite, 

Yet she each hour more keenly hears 
The cry of sorrow, day or night. 

Though not now, as in years gone by. 
Her patient feet long journeys press. 

They still are swift enough to fly 
Where'er a soul is in distress. 

Her heart a countless number cheers. 

That seems each year new warmth to hold. 

And though she has advanced in years, 
'Twould not be true to call her old. 



41 



FOR MOTHER'S SAKE 

How I shall miss you when from me you go, 
Far out into the world your mark to make ; 

And yet, somehow, I feel within, and know, 
You will be good and true, for mother's sake. 

How I shall miss the light of your dear face. 
The heart that would my counsel ask, and take 

The good-night kiss, the gentle, fond embrace; 
But then you will be brave, for mother's sake. 

How much your songs and laughter I shall miss 
When I at early morn from slumber wake. 

But I shall be well satisfied of this — 

You will be strong and brave, for mother's 
sake. 

Yes, I shall miss you, O, my boy, so much ! 

But this remember, that my heart would break 
Should your dear hands things vile and evil 

touch ; 
So heaven keep you good, for mother's sake! 



HER BOY 

Her boy may displease her, as soon as he's up, 

By letting the house-cat drink out of his cup, 

Before with his breakfast he wholly is through; 

So many strange things he may thoughtlessly do. 

She may give him a glance that partakes of a 
frown, 

And call him the very worst boy in the town ; 

But, when for the night he is washed and un- 
dressed. 

She will hug him and kiss him and call him the 
best. 

42 



Before it is noon he may fall from his chair, 
And fill her poor soul with the pangs of despair ; 
He may make such a clutter and clatter and 

noise, 
As to wholly unbalance her avoirdupois ; 
Then, if she should give him a glance that was 

sad, 
And think other boys were not nearly so bad, 
When he round her neck has his little arms 

thrown. 
She thinks that the best boy on earth is her own. 

As the day wears away his noise may increase. 
And the poor woman feel that on earth is no 

peace ; 
But, just as she feels as if going to die, 
And gives from her heart a very deep sigh. 
The sun in the west sets the heavens aflame. 
He runs to her arms and calls her by name. 
And asks in his crib for the night to be curled. 
Then she knows that her boy is the best in the 

world. 



A MOTHER'S LIFE 

I live beyond myself; I hold 

That none should live for self alone; 
So I, a mother, seek to mold 

A Hfe outside my own. 
When morning's beams the far east burn, 

Two childish feet I seek to place 
So that, at night, when they return, 

They shall not know disgrace. 

I seek to help two little eyes 

The beautiful in life to see, 
So that, should danger them surprise, 

They may not blinded be. 

43 



I seek to teach two hands to grasp 
Things that are good and will endure. 

So that at eve, when them I clasp, 
They will be sweet and pure. 

A heart each day I seek to stir 
Against the wicked and defiled ; 

And so her mother lives for her — 
Dear, precious, darling child. 

LITTLE PET, DO NOT FORGET 

Come, lay your head on mother's breast, 
The day's long play at last is through. 

No birdling in his little nest 
Has snugger, warmer cot than you. 

Close up your little eyes, and let 
The fairies bear you, sweet, away 

Where you a season will forget 

The weariness that comes with play. 

But do not hurry off quite yet, 
A moment nestle warm and snug ; 

And, little pet, do not forget 
To give mamma a good-night hug. 

And, with the hug, forget not, sweet. 
The kiss that mother's cares beguile. 

That, when your rest becomes complete, 
You may awaken with a smile. 

JOHNNY DUNBAR 

There is a young lad, living near where I do. 
Whose cheeks are both red and whose eyes are 

both blue ; 
He is fat as a dough-ball and bright as a star. 
And most of us call him young Johnny Dunbar; 

44 



Though brimful of mischief, he always is good, 
The life of his home and the whole neighborhood. 

He has a bright smile for big people and small, 
The dog knows his whistle, the birds know his 

call; 
He runs in the house with a song and a shout ; 
And all gloom and sadness are soon put to rout ; 
His life in one current of happiness flows. 
And the world is made happy wherever he goes. 

Young Johnny's big heart is so merry and light 
He seems one burst of sunshine from morning till 

night ; 
He knows naught of worry, and it is quite plain 
That naught can the flow of his spirits restrain; 
May sorrow, that comes to so many, be far 
From one ever cheerful as Johnny Dunbar. 

There are boys who possess soft, beautiful curls, 
And hands that awaken the envy of girls ; 
No dust is e'er seen on their velvety clothes 
No dirt on the toes of their shoes can repose ; 
Should I say this of him the truth I would mar, 
For this is not true of young Johnny Dunbar. 

There are boys who inherit so many strange ills 
They have to be doctored with cordials and pills ; 
They are rocked when awake, and when asleep 

fanned. 
And when the wind blows they scarcely can 

stand ; 
They have indigestion, dyspepsia, catarrh, 
But then 'tis not so with young Johnny Dunbar. 

Young Johnny Dunbar is well, robust, complete, 
From the top of his head to the soles of his feet ; 
He is brimful of vigor, ambition and vim, 
And I have a very strong liking for him ; 

45 



He's a courage for good that no evil can jar, 
And the pride of his neighbors is Johnny Dunbar. 

For who is there 'mong us, as years roll away, 
And we have passed over life's morning of May, 
But knows that a happy child's laughter and smile 
Can from us the chill of December beguile? 
We all know 'tis so. Then wherever you are 
Join with me in three cheers for our Johnny Dun- 
bar! 

ON EASY STREET 

Joe Bentley lives on Easy street. 

Just at the widest part ; 
Where nature's work, left incomplete, 

Has been made good by art. 
No matter how long be the day, 

Or which way sets the breeze, 
A flock of birds, with colors gay, 

Are scattered 'mong the trees. 

The people, up and down the street. 

Do mostly as they please ; 
They are not puffed up with conceit, 

But always seem at ease. 
They seldom fret at anything, 

Of comfort do not tire; 
And all the world to them will bring 

Whatever they desire. 

On Easy street, Joe was not born ; 

But in a country town, 
Where boys must work, from early morn 

Until the sun goes down. 
While some boys spent all thdl they earned 

Before the week was thro' ; 
He was more wise and early learned 

To save a dime or two. 

46 



Nobody left to him the land ; 

His house was not a gift ; 
The frame by industry was planned, 

The walls were reared by thrift; 
And, while men with less energy 

Would of hard times complain, 
He built a roof the world might see 

To shed the snow and rain. 

Idleness for him drove no nail, 

Nor hung a single door ; 
Sloth never had the chance to fail 

To lay for him a floor ; 
Naught of the house was left to luck. 

Nor did he e'er lose heart; 
While perseverance, toil and pluck 

He stamped on every part. 

The corner posts he made secure 

'Mid envious scoffs and sneers ; 
The rafters spiked, so to endure 

Throughout the coming years. 
While at his work he would not stop, 

Tho' others paused to dream ; 
And now upon its finished top 

The golden sunbeams gleam. 

His house was not reared in a day ; 

Long years and years he toiled ; 
But early threw the thought away 

Hands are by labor soiled. 
And when the house stood forth complete, 

From, roof to cellar bin, 
One morning Joe passed up the street — 

And quietly moved in. 

For any housed in doubt and gloom. 
By no ambition cheered, 

47 



On Easy street there still is room 

For houses to be reared. 
The lots are fine, surroundings nice, 

And, tho' you have delayed, 
You yet can have one at the price 

That brave Joe Bentley paid. 



WHEN YOU WILL THINK OF DAD 

When you are far away, my boy, way up among 
the hills, 

Adrinkin' in the odor that the forest grand dis- 
tils. 

Of course, you will not think of me atoilin' here 
in town. 

An' wonderin' how I best can keep our big ex- 
penses down. 

When you are climbin' up the mount, or sailin' 

on the lake. 
To write ol' Dad a- line or two the time you will 

not take. 
When you are dancin' in the hall, with ladies 

young and fair. 
To think of Dad, down here in town, of course 

you will not care. 

When you are startin' for a ride behind a four- 
in-hand, 

An' everything that you desire Dame Fortune 
well has planned, 

I know you will not think of me, but I will bet 
my neck 

That you will think of your ol' Dad when next 
vou want a check. 



48 



HE PAYS ALL THE BILLS 

Very soon at our house will a wedding take place, 
When Archibald Short is to marry our Grace ; 
My wife and the neighbors are making all plans, 
Are buying the linen, the gloves and the fans, 
And, while the dear creatures are putting on 

frills, 
I'm but the old fellow who pays all the bills. 

They are ordering laces and bonnets from 

France, 
And I for the payments the cash must advance. 
Now, when I come home, at a busy day's close, 
The women are off buying blankets or hose ; 
And, if at such actions my poor heart is stirred, 
From me a remark they consider absurd. 
'Tis this sort of treatment sends shivers and 

chills 
Down the spine of the fellow who pays all the 

bills. 

I hear nothing now but what Grace ought to 

wear, 
Who's making her trousseau ? Who'll do up her 

hair? 
And every new morn, when I open the mail, 
A bill or two's there for some new-fangled trail. 
The caterers are knocking all day at my door. 
And printers are sending me cards by the score ; 
A dream of disaster my weary brain fills 
Each night, when retiring — for I pay the bills. 

Yet even my troubles can show their bright side, 
While all must acknowledge our Grace a fair 

bride ; 
My heart with a new satisfaction expands, 
My wife has so nicely got Grace off my hands. 



49 



Six daughters still sit 'neath my family tree 
To administer comfort and solace to me ; 
And so I submit to whatever fate wills, 
Tho' 'tis I, poor old fellow, who pays all the bills ! 

THE LORDLY CONDUCTOR 

Some years ago when railroading was new, — 
Towns far apart, and cities small and few, — 
A fat conductor, to his own surprise. 
Shrank every day one-half his usual size ; 
And yet, ere night swept o'er the Eastern plane, 
He had assumed his lordly size again. 

Although there is no mention of his name, 
The story's point and lesson are the same : 
His train each day pulled out from down in 

Maine, 
Where men are strong, and maidens are not vain, 
And people looked upon him with the awe 
Surrounding one whose every word is law. 

In that small, quiet, eastern country town 
He wore a sort of undisputed crown ; 
At church, post office, on the public way, 
Nb one dared speak if he had aught to say ; 
For he, of course, could naught of knowledge 

lack. 
Who rode each day to Boston-town and back. 

His shrinking so each day is thus explained : — 
Soon as he left, where he a monarch reigned. 
And men of wealth and brains got on the train. 
His vaunted greatness he could not maintain ; 
And, when the cars 'cross Boston's boundaries 

ran, 
He passed for but an ordinary man. 

But when his train, at flush of high noonday. 
Was speeding eastward, on its homeward way, 

50 



People began to open wide their eyes', 
To see how rapidly he grew in size ; 
And when the train to the small township ran, 
He passed for twice an ordinary man. 

And so it is, as most of us have found. 
How much we know depends on who is 'round 
How rich we are, as most of us can tell. 
Greatly depends on where we chance to dwell; 
How big we are, how much we may expand. 
Largely depends on who is close at hand. 



ONE FROM THE CROWD 

Upon the platform high he stood 

And discoursed to the throng ; 
He told the people what was good 

And what he thought was wrong. 
They listened to his polished speech — 

They praised him for his art; 
And yet its power did not reach 

Into a single heart. 

The man was classical and proud — 
He stood too far above the crowd. 

Another rose, and made a speech 

With fervor and with zeal ; 
He stood where he the throng could reach 

His words he made them feel. 
The cultured grace the first possessed 

It was not his to claim ; 
And yet, deep down in every breast, 

He stirred the answering flame. 

He was not classical nor proud — 

But one who came from out the crowd. 



51 



PATRICK GARGAN 

From the ranks of that great army marching 

Forever and ever along. 
Thro' this world to the shores of another, 

With footsteps heroic and strong, 
One we knew, and have honored and cherished, 

Has sighted its beautiful banks, 
Has crossed the mysterious river — 

Brave Gargan has passed from the ranks. 

With a hand ever generous and open 

With pride he performed well his part. 
Was endowed with a brain that was active. 

And was blessed with a great human heart. 
He was kind to the poor and the needy, 

N'or from them turned coldly aside ; 
We felt richer while yet he was living — 

We are poorer because he has died. 

When the land of his pride and adoption 

Was calling for brave, noble men 
To defend both her flag and her honor. 

He laid by his pencil and pen ; 
He went forth to face hardship and danger. 

And to battle for freedom and right ; 
And the sword that he drew will ne'er tarnish. 

But remain, like his name, ever bright. 

At last, when from horrors of warfare 

The land that he loved found release, 
In the conflict of wealth versus labor 

He did what he could to make peace. 
When earth's armies of heroes are marshalled 

To have for their services thanks, 
Patrick Gargan will be of the number 

To be honored and raised from the ranks. 



BEN FRANKLIN 

Read Before Typographical Union, No. 120, 
Jan. 17th, 1896. 

What leaf can I bring, from my garden so small, 
Sufficiently fair 'round your saint to let fall? 
What flower let drop, from my poor feeble hands, 
Could add a new charm to the niche where he 
stands ? 

What phrase can I coin that one jot would in- 
crease 
The fame of Ben Franklin, in war or in peace? 
For this is the record, whate'er called to do, 
To himself and his country to always be true. 

Round his brow men of genius have woven the 

bays, 
And poets unnumbered have chanted his praise ; 
And, while my small tribute a day may endure, 
His place in your hearts is forever secure. 

We carefully turn o'er the records of fame, 
And find, deeply 'graven thereon, Franklin's 

name, 
Which the rust of the years. can never efface, 
Nor the strong hand of time attempt to erase. 

He rose, by the force of his own mighty will. 
Many places of trust and of honor to fill ; 
And, no matter how large, no matter how small. 
He was great in the smallest and true in them all. 

Abroad at the rich court of France, 'mong the 

learned, 
For the land of his birth bright laurels he earned, 
And when, with the wisest of earth called to cope, 
Was as modest as when but a boy making soap. 

53 



I rise in my seat, and hail each typo here, 

Who the steps follows still of that great pioneer, 

Who gave to the world so much wisdom and 

light 
By the flash of his brain and electrified kite. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

His song is sung, the measures are completed, 
And though his face we shall not see again. 

The pure, sweet notes his joyous lips repeated 
Will cheer our lives with many a glad refrain. 

Down in the valley, where the gloom is blighting, 
He never sought a human soul to lead; 

But from the hill-tops he was ever sighting 
A balm to find to aid hearts in their need. 

Hope was the theme to which he gave expression. 

It formed the burden of his charming lays ; 
And through the earth men make the glad confes- 
sion, 

Their hearts have felt its soul-inspiring rays. 

Around the festive board, with friends in session, 
With song or story to good cheer impart. 

Such was his charm, of humor and expression, 
All recognized him master of his art. 

No matter who around the board was seated. 
If foreign prince or ruler of our own ; 

For his high seat no singer e'er competed — 
All knew it could be filled by him alone. 

Whose hand like his could at the "Breakfast 
Table" 
Mix such a draught for body, mind and soul ? 

54 



Who had the power to dress so nice a fable ? 
Whose wit could make such tears of laughter 
roll? 

Loved "Autocrat!" thy wit is undiluted; 

The world at large acknowledges thy worth ; 
And though our loss cannot now be computed, 

We will not weep above thy mound of earth. 

For well we know that this would cause thee sor- 
row, 

And so we will not do thy mem'ry wrong, 
But live in hope to greet thee on that morrow 

Whose hours are ever glorified by song. 



WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON 

The stamp of greatness rested on his brow, 
A love for man was-written on his face; 

Unaided and alone he made a vow 

To strike the galling shackles from a race. 

What could he do to make that vow a truth ? 

The North and South his efforts did deride. 
One poor, weak man, a stripling and a youth ; 

Nay, more there were, for God was on his side. 

Brave for the right, he fought with tongue and 
pen 

A war that fiercely raged from sea to sea ; 
He won the battle, and a race of men, 

Long bound in chains, were made forever free. 

His life, so filled with honorable zeal 

For those born to the whipping-post and rack, 

Will brighter grow as mankind comes to feel 
That all are brothers, be they white or black. 

55 



Beside a heart so stripped of selfishness, 
Bent low to hear a bleeding- people's cry, 

They who opposed must error now confess, 
And all their praise of liberty — a lie. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS 

Silent I stand by Phillips' honored grave. 

And think how long he wrought, and with 
what power, 
That the downtrodden, scar-backed Southern 
Slave 
Might have his liberty, — his rightful dower. 

For this he braved the sneers of Beacon Hill, 
Near whose proud crest his mother gave him 
birth ; 
For this he fought the Southern tyrants' will, 
And conquering both, is blessed throughout 
the earth. 

Unmoved by threats and gibes of Northern foes, 
And undismayed by Southern scorn and hate, 

Battling the issue to a happy close, 

He honored both the Nation and the State. 

Come ye, who sell yourselves for place and gold, 
And learn how true to right he chose to be, 

Remove your shoes, your tongues in silence hold, 
The angel guarding here demands this fee. 

Sleep, Phillips, sleep; a hero good and pure, 
Reformer, sage, revered by small and great ; 

The cause you fought for rests today secure 
With those who seek your life to emulate. 



56 



THE DEAD THAT LIVE 

Man dies, but what he did 

Is by no coffin-Hd 

Concealed with his dead bones; 
That Hves for good or bad, 
To bless, or to make sad, 

To light or deepen groans. 

No life can be as naught ; 

By what is done and wrought 

An influence is made, 

And in some action dressed 
By which it is expressed 

To the minutest shade. 

A soldier and a priest — 

Mahomet .rules the East, — 

Napoleon lives in France; 
Warren for Freedom died. 
Yet he hath hosts supplied 

For Liberty's advance. 

The statesman from the floor, 
The scholar by his lore, 
The soldier on the field. 

Though dead and turned to dust, 

Live, and for ages must 
An influence wield. 

Thy years are but a span, 

Yet ne'er forget, oh, man. 

You live when you are dead ; 
What you shall leave behind 
Will help to shape the mind 

Of ages far ahead. 



57 



THE NATION'S. HEROES 

Dedicated to Gen. Landor Post 5, G. A. R., 
Lynn, Mass. 

When traitorous hands our Flag assailed, 
And tried to rend the States asunder. 

The North herself in armor mailed. 

And charged her guns with bolts of thunder, 

On every hill, where yeomen's feet 

Kept pace behind their ploughing cattle, 

Was heard the loud drum's lusty beat, 
Calling proud Freedom's sons to battle. 

Within the city's crowded marts 

The call to arms was loudly sounded ; 

Men laid aside the peaceful arts, 
And into war's arena bounded. 

The farmer left his faithful plough 

Standing within the half-turned furrow; 

The student, with his pallid brow, 

For Wisdom's treasures ceased to burrow. 

The lawyer laid Blackstone aside. 

To face the traitor-foe defiant. 
Shouldered his gun with loyal pride. 

And chose his country for his client. 

The preacher into action wheeled. 

Where swords, not prayers, must do the plead- 
ing; 
The surgeon hurried to the field. 

To stop the Nation's wounds from bleeding. 

But none from town or mountain crag. 

Who sought the ship of state, and manned her, 

Fought braver for the dear old flag 
Than they who form the Post of Landor. 

58 



She furnished men of every grade, 
From colonel down to army sutler, 

Men who secession's progress stayed, 
Led on by Sherman, Grant and Butler. 

Others, with Farragut and Meade, 

Helped write their country's tragic story; 

While some, who followed Hooker's lead, 
Covered themselves with deathless glory. 

On every field, where shell and ball 

Poured forth, the Union grand to sever, 

You helped push Treason to the wall. 
And wipe out Slavery forever. 

Why gild the page, while mem'ry reads? 

Can words add to the record's splendor 
Of those whose grand, heroic deeds. 

Aided in forcing Lee's surrender? 

The weary march — the limbs you lost. 
The lives in southern prisons blighted ; 

Recall the sacrifice it cost 

To keep Columbia's shores united. 

And there were some who marched with you. 
Whose deeds, like yours, both thrill and charm 
me. 

Passed on to the great, grand review 
Of Death, who conquers every army. 

Not dead, ah ! no, but tenting where 
No foemen lurk in swamp and thicket. 

Rending with rifle shot the air 
About the sentinel on picket. 

Safe bivouacked on those heights sublime 
Where all is peace and joy and beauty, 

Waiting, with longing hearts, the time 

When Earth's last Guard's relieved from duty. 

59 



EVACUATION DAY 

Once a year the good people of Boston 

Lay their cares and their duties aside, 
To join in their grand celebration 

With more than their usual pride. 
The old and the young, all are happy, 

As together they learn and relearn — 
How the British withdrew from their borders, 

And never again to return. 

For months they had gathered in numbers ; 

All had noted their presence with dread. 
As they marched thro' the streets of the city 

With their regular ominous tread. 
They were armed ; but it was not that only 

Was of dissatisfaction the source ; 
They were there, and by King George's orders, 

Tyrannical laws to enforce. 

The people, so wronged, were indignant, 

And vowed that it never should be; 
Each move to compel them resisting, 

A grand eftort they made to be free. 
They were all under Washington's orders. 

Obeying his every command ; 
He planned ; they left all to their leader 

And followed each wave of his hand. 

To cover both harbor and city 

They fortified Dorchester Heights ; 
What an army arose at their rally ! 

A people defending their rights. 
A surprise was their raid on the Red-Coats, 

Who fled to their ships in the bay, 
From the heights what a volley was thundered! 

Then, hard driven, the fleet sailed away. 

Thus the British were driven from Boston: 
But much more still remained to be done ; 

60 



From afar came more rumors of battle, 

There was need there of great Washington. 

So, leaving freed Boston behind him — 
Ever brave to attack or defend, 

Ever victory following victory, 

He brought war to a glorious end. 

Ah ! our ancestors knew what they planted 

With their wide-spreading liberty-tree; 
In its arms are our strength and protection. 

And, as now, so it ever shall be ! 
Theirs were deeds we will ever remember. 

Those of days when men's courage was tried 
An inheritance priceless they left us — 

A nation, our boast and our pride! 

A nation whose watchword is ever — 

"For liberty, union and right!" 
Whose flag stands for justice and honor. 

Sustained by a great people's might. 
Forever by valor protected. 

O'er our land, blood-redeemed, may it wave, 
W^here the soil is too good for a tyrant. 

Where the air is too pure for a slave ! 



THE BARTHOLDI STATUE 

Rise ! beacon to so grand a height — 

From out the blue waves wild and free — 

That through oppression's darkest night, 
Men may their way to freedom see. 

May thy bright-burning beams be felt 
Across the world's remotest plains. 

Until their gracious influence melt 

From earth's last slave his galling chains. 



61 



The gift of France, our sister land, 
To whom, ere now, we owed so much. 

Our thanks to her, as hand in hand, 
We both grow grander for the touch. 

May both keep on their upward way, 
Finding new Hght in Freedom's school. 

Until time ushers in the day 

When all men learn themselves to rule. 



OLD GLORY, WAVE! 

Old Glory, wave ! Each patriot holds 

A hope within thy starry folds. 

O, flag that binds — Red, White and Blue! 

The hearts of all thy lovers true. 

Old Glory, wave o'er dale and hill, 
Voice of thy message never still ! 
From mountain's height to ocean's crest. 
All 'neath thy sheltering folds are blest. 

Wave over rostrum, school and church, 
High o'er the eagle's cloud-capped perch. 
Above a people prosperous, free. 
All that they are, and hope to be! 

Wave over desert-waste and sea, 
Emblem of right and liberty ! — 
And may our glory-banner wave 
Till earth has freed her latest slave. 

Wave on, old Glory, day and night. 
Supported by a people's might ! 
On thee, tho' distant Nations frown. 
May none have power to tear thee down I 



62 



CROWNING HER DEAD 

Tune — ''America" 

Sung by the School children at the dedication 
of the Soldiers' Monument, at Swampscott, 
Mass., June i8th, 1883. 

To her brave sons who died 
That Freedom might abide 

In all the land, 
Swampscott today, in tears, 
This monument uprears, 
To prove how she reveres 

That honored band. 

Here, on this verdant crest, 
High on her grateful breast, 

Ever to dwell ; 
Here, where the tireless sea 
Will chant in majesty. 
How for true Liberty 

Her brave sons fell. 

With loyal, holy pride, 
She gravens, side by side, 

The names of those 
Whose hist'ry here doth blend, 
Who fought for one great end — 
The Union to defend 

Against its foes. 

The victory they wrought 
With priceless good is fraught 

To this fair town. 
Freed stand four million slaves; 
Our flag in triumph waves ; 
Because of their bless'd graves, 

Decked with renown. 



'Neath scorching Southern sun, 
On fields their valor won, 

Their brave forms sleep. 
Their spirits, past decay, 
Are hov'ring here today ; 
Chanting a deathless lay, 

A guard they keep. 

Father! at whose right hand 
Our destinies are planned, 

Look down in love! 
May wars forever cease, 
And universal peace 
Yield us her rich increase 

From Thee above! 

NO FLOWERS TOO FAIR 

Bring flowers from the billowy vale, 

And from the mountains high and steep, 

That we may choicest garlands trail 
Above the graves where heroes sleep. 

No flower that 'neath the noonday sun 
Its perfumed head in beauty waves, 

Nor those that blow when day is done, 
Can be too fair for heroes' graves. 

Then pluck the fairest flowers that bloom, 
And place them, with a loving hand, 

Above the May-kissed grassy tomb 
Of every hero in the land. 

Let children with the old unite 

In wreathing flowers pure and sweet, 

That garlands red, and garlands white, 
A perfect offering may complete. 

So, year by year, our hands will heap 
A wealth of flowers, broad and high, 

64 



Because they, who in silence sleep, 
For our dear country dared to die. 

Brave souls, that marched where duty led, 
Life's last great battle now is o'er; 

And, though gone from us, are not dead. 
But rest where war drums beat no more. 

We scarcely know today how high, 

On Fame's bright roll, to place each name; 

Time, as the rolling years go by, 
A truer answer shall proclaim. 

Far as our country's bounds extend, 

And brighter grows her diadem, 
Will we more fully comprehend 

How great the debt we owe to them. 

NEW ENGLAND BEST 

I love our dear New England best, 
Where hills are deep, and broad, and high ; 

What if the prairies of the West 
A wealth that's measureless supply ? 

For from their tops, where winds blow free, 
And birds and flowers their lessons teach, 

The distant heavens seem to be 
A little nearer to my reach. 

A MOTHER'S WELCOME 

There will be no blare of trumpets. 

No sound of martial drums; 
There will be no shout of triumph 

When he from the conflict comes. 
There will be no great ovation, 

No bands to play their part. 
But there will be sweetest music 

In his dear old mother's heart. 

65 



There will not be miles of bunting 

O'er our dwellings decked with care; 

Rockets, nor Roman candles, 

• Will fill with their light the air. 

There will be no long procession, 
For our citizens to scan, 

But mother will bid him welcome 
As only a mother can ! 

THE OLD FLAG NEVER TOUCHED 
THE GROUND 

Sergt. William H. Carney, the undaunted color 
bearer at the battle of Fort Wagner, though ter- 
ribly wounded, still held aloft the banner and 
cried to his comrades : ''Boys, the old flag never 
touched the ground!" 

When you rehearse the names of those 

Who, when the country was divided 
In sentiment ; and Southern foes 

Against the Northern section sided, 
Forget not Carney's name, I pray. 

Dark was his skin, no heart was fairer. 
Who fought in Wagner's bloody fray — 

The Massachusetts color bearer. 

When Col. Shaw gave forth the word 

Fort Wagner was to be assaulted, 
And men of Massachusetts heard 

The order, not a soldier halted. 
Forward that mighty column moved, 

With hurrying steps, now fast, now faster, 
Only to be mowed down, which proved 

That e'en the bravest meet disaster. 

Black night put heaven's torches out, 
The rain, too, was in torrents falling ; 

And now and then was heard a shout — 
The wounded were for succor calling. 
6G 



The scene was awful to behold, 

For, 'mid the cannon's ceaseless rattle. 

And heard above it, thunders rolled, 
While lightnings lit the field of battle. 

They fought — prepared for any fate; 

And Northern men, by warm hearts cherish- 
ed — 
Whose love of country was so great 

They would not yield — by choice they per- 
ished. 
The field was heaped and covered o'er 

With loyal soldiers dead and dying, 
And Wall, who late the colors bore, 

Alas ! too soon was with them lying. 

Young Carney saw his comrade's fate — 

Heard, as it were, death to him calling. 
And, quicker than words can relate. 

As from Wall's hand the flag was falling. 
Though wounded, down his gun he threw. 

All fear of death and danger braving, 
Seized the old flag, with courage true, 

Raised it aloft — and kept it waving. 

At last the troops were forced to yield. 

Their columns shattered, thinned and broken; 
And, as they left the bloody field, 

Scarcely a word by them was spoken. 
Brave Carney was so loth to go 

That he among the latest tarried ; 
And, when he did, with footsteps slow. 

The colors saved he proudly carried. 

When Carney reached his camp again. 

With the old flag he had defended. 
Up, thro' the darkness and the rain, 

Cheer after cheer to heaven ascended; 

67 



And, when the soldiers gathered round — 
The young, the middle-aged, the hoary — 

"The old flag never touched the ground !" 
Was Carney's brief and simple story. 

Then write, with pen of quenchless fire. 

His deed on history's fadeless pages, 
That it may patriots grave inspire. 

Thro' all the rounds of coming ages. 
Where duty calls, there to be found. 

And claim, like Carney, heart unfailing, 
"The old flag never touched the ground, 

Nor ever in the dust was trailing!" 

ABEDISTEGO RAMSDELL 

Have you heard of the part a Lynn man played 
In the famous struggle our nation made? 
How from Lynn to Lexington, foe to meet, 
He ran all the way in his stocking feet? 
'Twas in April, 1775, 
When the red-coats made Lexington all alive. 

Far out on Lynn marshes, with dog and gun. 
He was sighting his game ; but his mind was upon 
His country in peril, that should be as free 
As the wind that blew toward him from the sea. 
He was out duck-hunting that April day. 
Little thinking that ere it had passed away 
In its great events he would bear a part 
To endear him to every patriot's heart. 

Of a sudden a horseman came in sight. 

He shouted the news of impending fight. 

When it startled Abednego Ramsdell's ear 

His heart gave a thrill and his voice gave a cheer. 

Did he stop to think of a uniform fine ? 

No; for Lexington Green he struck a bee-line. 

His hunting-boots, heavy with mud and hide. 

6S 



So hampered his running-, he cast them aside. 
As with shouldered gim^and with wild heart-beat 
He hurried from Lynn in his stocking-feet. 

For a moment the thought flashed thro' his mind 
Of those whom he loved that he'd left behind. 
Fond voices from home he seemed to hear, 
But his country's voice called him to duty clear. 
While his soul to the truth was fully awake, 
That her very existence was at stake. 
So he hastened forward with panting breath. 
To fight for liberty — or for death — 
Undaunted by distance, fatigue or heat, 
To Lexington Green, in his stocking-feet. 

As with steps unlagging he onward sped 
No streaming banner waved over his head, 
To strengthen his purpose, his heart to cheer, 
To give him new courage and banish fear. 
He followed no rousing trumpet-call, 
No drum-beat — the beat of his heart was all. 
What need of these to this man from Lynn, 
When freedom's music was sounding within? 
With comrades as true he was soon to meet. 
So on, on he sped in his stocking-feet. 

Thro' villages onward his way he took, 

Never pausing to cast behind him a look. 

But soon from the byways, now one, now two, 

Rushed to the highway good men and true, 

And then by the dozen; with visages grim 

They fell into line and marched, following him — 

Following him to old Lexington Green ; 

A company braver never was seen. 

They all thought of victory, none of retreat, 

Led on by our hero in stocking- feet. 

I need not tell how they fought that day; 
The story on history's page will stay; 

69 



And that man from Lynn, he had done his best 
Ere he fell with a bullet that pierced his breast. 
Thro' the battle-smoke of that April morn 
Shone liberty over a land new-born ; 
And with others who fought that day to win, 
Remember brave Ramsdell, the man from Lynn! 
And to our children his name repeat. 
Who ran from Lynn in his stocking-feet. 

MOLL PITCHER 
The Fortune Teller of Lynn 

Know you not of that wonderful woman. 

Who forms of Lynn's history a part, 
Who made for herself a name famous, 

By rnaking of witchcraft an art? 
She was born while yet Lynn was a township, 

Way over in old Marblehead, 
Where her grandfather, tho' a ship owner, 

The strange life of a sorcerer led. 

Of the things that he did 'tis related, 

When seas waved in tumultuous war. 
From a hill jutting out from the graveyard, 

That he guided his ships safe to shore 
By signs and enchantment and witchcraft ; 

And this was his heart's great desire. 
That his granddaughter's powers should rival 

In wonder the works of her sire. 

Her grandfather's evil familiars, 

Viewless spirits he only could guide. 
When a girl she had hated and feared them, 

From all witchcraft turned ever aside. 
But later, when childless and widowed, 

And poverty came with its blight, 
She practiced strange arts for a living — 

She was forced — she had hunger to fight. 

70 



In Marblehead, young Mollie Diamond 

Was a clever and fair looking- maid ; 
She attracted and wed Robert Pitcher, 

A Lynn man, shoemaker by trade. 
So in Lynn they made home, and were happy ; 

The world seemed a beautiful place ; 
There a son to their fireside was added. 

In their cot, 'neath High Rock's stony base. 

The years rolled away, and the changes 

That come sooner or later to all, 
Tho' they be of the rich or the lowly, 

Cast over her home a dark pall ; 
For her husband, the man she had cherished, 

And her son — her heart's dearest was he. 
Both were lost on a perilous voyage 

And were drowned in the depths of the sea. 

One day to her house came a sailor — 

And other survivor was none — 
Who told her the sorrowful story 

How perished her husband and son. 
From that day all was changed. Poor and needy, 

With no talent to teach or to stitch. 
Thereafter all called her Moll Pitcher — 

Fortune-teller, soothsayer and witch. 

She assumed a strange costume, strange manners ; 

She proclaimed o'er the bounds she could see 
Of the present, and into the future. 

In the leaves of a drained cup of tea, 
She practiced palm reading, card reading, 

Received clients and no one beside. 
A black cat was her only companion, 

And he heard her last words when she died. 

She was sought by the youth and the lover, 
By the mean and the gentle of birth, 

By the merchant and weather-worn sailor. 
For her fame had gone out thro' the earth. 

71 



Who came in good faith or affliction, 

Discovered in her a true friend ; 
But the trifler and cunning deceiver, 

'Tis said, met some terrible end. 

Thro' a long, lonely life, she had gathered 

A medley of curious things; 
Queer objects were brought her by sailors, 

Snakes, turtles and fishes with wings, 
Huge shells from the shores of strange oceans. 

In which could be heard the sea's roar; 
And two mammoth whale's bones that, like sen- 
tinels. 

Kept guard day and night by her door. 

When worn out, and with old age decrepit. 

Her bold spirit a rest at last found ; 
Near a century has lain her poor body 

In West Lynn's old burying ground. 
By some people, who are superstitious. 

We are told that when storm rules the waves, 
That the figure of poor old Moll Pitcher 

Can be seen moving there 'mid the graves. 

Whate'er may be said of the service 

The people received from her hand, 
To some she had proved a great blessing. 

Bringing good where an evil was planned. 
For we know that, in all of God's creatures. 

Though to evil at times they incline, 
There is still to be found in their natures 

A spark of the good and divine. 

HIGH ROCK 

Dear Lynn, were we to search the whole world 

'round. 
No place so dear to us could e'er be found. 
Thou art our city, our abode, our home ; 

72 



And tho', at times, afar from thee we roam 
To distant lands, how soon for thee we yearn, 
Nor know full joy again till we return! 
Come, friend! 'tis morning; just the chosen time 
That we up old High Rock's ascent should climb, 
That, from that vantage point, we may behold 
Fair scenes that 'round us ceaselessly unfold. 
The sun shines on us from his silver disc ; 
About us revel breezes, cool and brisk, 
There is a sense of fullness in the air, 
A perfectness in which all things have share. 
Look far out, o'er the waters of the bay. 
Where once the Mayflower made her heaven- 

led-way — 
That precious craft, with her more precious 

freight, 
That made this land a province — then a State, 
Greatest today of all the forty-five 
By whose ideas all the others thrive. 

Friend, if you cannot come with me by day, 
When birds are singing and the flowers bloom 

gay, 
After you have enjoyed home's evening meal, 
After night's shadows o'er the scenery steal. 
And stars have set the skies with light ablaze, 
Come with me — on the view enchanted gaze! 
Moon-whitened housetops are on every side; 
The lights of home fill windows far and wide ; 
While o'er us, from the blue, gleam on our sight, 
All glorious, the jewels of the night. 

Another day, let us again look out. 

For places history knows are hereabout. 

Far eastward — it is there may be discerned 

Salem ; and witches, women there were burned ; 

Sent to the stake, not being in accord 

With those self-styled the chosen of the Lord ; 

Who called them demons from the nether world, 

73 



Whence they had come, to which they should be 
hurled. 

They even took it on themselves to tell 

Who was of heaven, and who was of hell. 

Thankful are we such bigotry has passed ; 

Man can believe whate'er he will at last. 

'Mongst their descendants, even now, we find 

Some who believe they know the Heavenly 
mind; 

But, on the people of the present day. 

Their fathers' sins it was unfair to lay. 

Still, though that smoke has long since disap- 
peared, 

Some stench remains; that fire the grass has 
seared. 

Towards Swampscott turn ; there see, upon the 

tide, 
The fisher's boat, to which his life's aUied, 
As it now falls, now rises, with the waves, 
'Neath which there lie so many unknown graves. 
'Twas from that port I sent, on Boyhood's sea, 
The ships I hoped would all come back to me 
Full to the decks ; but, on the treacherous main, 
In form of wrecks, some have come back again. 

Towards Boston's State House should your eyes 

now roam. 
You'll see the sun reflected from the dome. 
Beneath which laws the most humane are fram- 
ed. 
That e'er have made old Massachusetts famed. 
Stars in the blue, like sentinels on guard, 
Gleam in the flag. o'er Charlestown's Navy Yard: 
And near, a monument to valor still, 
The shaft that rises over Bunker Hill. 

More to the right then look, with searching eyes, 
See where the famed blue hills of Milton rise; 

74 



And, o'er their slopes, o'er-capped with vine and 

tree, 
Nature unfolds her rich embroidery. 
Turn to the north, where hills on hills arise. 
Tree-crowned, whose tops ascend to meet the 

skies. 
From which there comes the pungent breath of 

pine, 
Mingled with that of flowers from bush and vine, 
Met by the cooling zephyrs from the sea, 
Should make this spot a heaven to you and me. 

Now turn to Lynn ! Look on our famous town 
From old High Rock, it's richly-silvered crown. 
See, nestling 'mid the myriad shapely trees. 
Fanned by the breath of every welcome breeze, 
The rich man's palace and the poor man's 

home — 
Here lifts the church spire, there the schoolhouse 

dome. 
The schoolhouse? There youth taught in wis- 
dom's ways 
Learn how they, in the world, themselves may 

raise 
To any station they aspire to fill. 
If to hard work they add a hearty will. 
See, from a hundred factory chimneys rise. 
As if in grateful incense to the skies, 
The smoke that tells there labor is employed. 
Because of which the hearts are overjoyed — 
Of those who carry on their business there 
And those who for their labor get their share. 
Fair city, that your wealth may still increase. 
May capital and labor live in peace ; 
For when arises, 'twixt the two, discord, 
Wealth finds no gain and labor no reward. 

In Lynn's midst is High Rock, on which we 

stand. 
With all its varied views on every hand. 
75 



Here children come to while an hour away, 

Who make of life a sunny holiday, 

To hear the stories told of other days, 

Of men whose deeds deserve our meed of praise. 

Here come the aged, who, thro' smiles and tears, 

Gaze out afar to bygone happy years. 

Looking beyond, to sunsets in the west, 

Hoping, yet dreaming, of the land of rest. 

Here may the artist, when to art inclined. 

Delight his eyes and inspiration find, 

'Mid scenes, with varied hues so delicate. 

He ne'er can equal — only imitate. 

Here may the lover with his love repair. 

See rays of sunshine gild her wavy hair. 

Her cheeks grow redder and her eyes more 

bright ; 
So shall his heart be filled with love's delight. 
While she, transfigured at his very side. 
May name the day when she will be his bride. 
Here may the poet wend his thoughtful way. 
On nature's lap his dreamy head to lay. 
There catch outpourings of her mighty soul 
Which, in his song may down the ages roll, 
Bearing his name, yet with this one desire — 
The sad to cheer, the hopeless to inspire; 
And tho', at times, perhaps misunderstood, 
His highest wish for mankind's brotherhood. 

TO THE LYNN WOODS 

Forget with me, old friend, awhile 
The market place 'mid heat and dust. 

Where men their treasures upward pile. 
That only can corrode and rust. 

Forget with me awhile to tread 

The ways where pride and hate are found. 

And let our dusty feet be led 

Where flowers in peaceful vales abound. 

76 



Climb with me some exalted height, 

And breathe the sweets we there may find, 

And let us view awhile aright 

The things that can make strong the mind. 

Let us forget the thrusts that scar, 

The waves of strife that round us roll, 

The sordid things that tend to mar 
The perfect fullness of the soul. 

Come where the world's false tinselings fade, 
'Mid scented vales and cool wild wood. 

Where nature brings, in leaf and blade, 
Forgetfulness of all but good. 

Of men I have not weary grown, 
And yet the woodland, and the hills, 

I truly love far more, I own. 

Than all the sweets the town distills. 

The city's walks I love, not hate, 
The stir of business and of trade — 

But come, let's pass the woodland gate 
And stay till we are stronger made. 



"HOWARD VILLA," 
Middleton, Mass. 

A dozen miles or more inland. 

There rests in peace that blest retreat ; 

Its ancient door by breezes fanned, 
Laden with scent of blossoms sweet. 

Around its gables, quaint and old. 

Sustained by rafters strong and stout, 

The song-birds love their wings to fold 
And pour their wealth of gladness out. 

77 



Near by the house a cool, deep spring 
Laughs out its never-failing flow ; 

Today as sweet and pure a thing 
As 'twas two hundred years ago. 

O'er the broad fields the cattle graze. 
And children dance in playful glee; 

While from afar we hear the lays 
Of Ipswich, 'flowing toward the sea. 

Great trees, with beauty mantled o'er, 
Make pictures that the soul reveres ; 

And one huge elm stands by the door — 
The sentinel of a hundred years. 

When the fair hours of day have flown. 
And stars from out the azure shine. 

Night sends a glory all her own 

That seems to make the place divine. 

To you dear walls my memory turns, — 
Whose charms the dullest soul would win 

And oft, at night, my poor heart yearns 
For one I chanced to meet therein. 



WHITE WITH BLOOM 

The trees are white with bloom again, 
And beauty guards them 'round about ; 

Warm sun and gentle drops of rain 

Have called their sweetest fragrance out 

When breezes stir they dance and swing. 
As if it were their heart's delight, 

To this cold earth again to bring 
New day, more radiant and bright. 

The happy birds to you extend 

A welcome in their wealth of song, 

78 



That you once more so well befriend 
A world devoid of bloom so long. 

Welcome, fair dawn of fragrant May! 

For your dear smile the world makes room ; 
And may you bear from us away 

All thoughts less pure than your sweet bloom. 



THE SONG OF THE TROLLEY CAR 

Thro' woods and fields, whate'er the cost, 
Mankind has made a path for me ; 

And every stream my way that crossed 

Was bridged, that I might wander free. 

Then here and there a village rose, 
As if 'neath an enchanter's wand; 

I know how to appeal to those 

With wit and sense to understand. 

I travel at a rapid pace ; 

Up the steep hill, and down I run ; 
Annihilating time and space ; 

The town and city I make one. 

The crowded factory and mill, 

I pass a dozen times a day; 
And where fair flowers their sweets distil. 

And wild birds sing, I make my way. 

Who would an observation take 

Of charms and beauties nature shows. 

Let him with me a journey make — 
He'll happier feel each mile he goes. 

Both high and low may go with me, 
And one and all I treat the same ; 

For I'm a leveller, as you see, 
And full equality proclaim. 

79 



It is one of my chiefest joys 
To carry with me, on my way, 

A lot of laughing girls and boys 
Out for a summer holiday. 

Then let the rich in autos ride, 
Or carriages, or what they may; 

Majorities for me decide, 

For pleasant comfort, night or day. 

I travel without thought of rest. 
In idleness no pleasure find; 

And feel that I am serving best 
When I am serving: human kind. • 



CLOSE YOUR EYES AND DREAM 

Come out here 'neath an April sky. 

In sight of hill and wood and stream, 

Beneath the budding willows lie 
And close your eyes and dream. 

Come here, that you may feel and know 
The joy of April's first warm gleam, 

That new life thro' your veins may flow ; 
Then close your eyes and dream. 

Come here, where in the passing breeze 

A myriad of voices seem. 
And listen to them while they please, — 

Then close your eyes and dream. 

Come here, you whom I once called dear, 
'Neath every sky my constant theme; 

And yet, dear heart, if you were here 
I had no cause to dream. 



80 



AT SUNSET 

The day had been a gloomy one, 

And in my room I sat alone; 
And yet, at intervals, the sun 

Between the clouds his face had shown. 

But, as he toward his setting drew, 
The black clouds wholly passed away; 

Then back, across the world, he threw 
The splendor of his golden ray. 

The long day's gloom I quite forgot, 
For I was glad as one could be. 

Because so happy in the thought 
Of all the sun had been to me. 

And then, I thought, where'er I lack. 
If, when down life's West I depart, 

I would be glad could I throw back 
One pleasant memory o'er some heart. 



TWO JUNE ROSES 

Two roses, flushed with beauty rare. 
Upon the same branch grew; 

Each had the same benignant care 
From shade and rain and dew. 

Each felt the same soul-cheering beams 
Of morning's glorious sun; 

And 'twas but natural their dreams 
And hopes should be as one. 

The same glad birds above each head 
Poured forth their songs in pride; 

And, when the setting sun grew red, 
They slumbered side by side. 

81 



One clay there came two maidens fair; 

''A rose for each," said they, 
As, gathering them with tender care, 

Each went her separate way. 

There was no time to say goodby. 

Scarce time to feel the smart 
Of being borne away to die 

Somewhere, unknown, apart. 

One lay upon a maiden's breast, 

That night to be a bride. 
Who to her lips the flower pressed — 

Forgot it when it died. 

The other found itself alone, 

Held in a dead child's hand; 
But as the earth was on them^ thrown, 

The rose its future planned. 

It said: "I will be strong and brave 
And pierce the cold earth thro';" 

Now, each year, o'er that dear child's grave, 
A rose bush blooms anew. 



THE FERNERY 

Thanks for the fernery you sent. 

Which now adorns my sitting room ; 
For it to me has freely lent 

The beauty of its quiet bloom ; 
And when the dark and wintry skies 

Their snows against my window fling, 
I slowly close my dreamy eyes 

And feel once more the breath of spring. 

As I gaze on the modest ferns 

That rise the soft green mosses thro', 

My heart once more the spot relearns 
Where they in beauty sprang and grew ; 

82 



I seem to tread again the hills 

Which oft my footsteps glad invite; 

And thoughts of fields my bosom fills 
With untold rapture and delight. 

As vine and berry I survey 

Or note the shoots and tender leaves, 
I seem once more to hear the lay 

Of wild bird as the air he cleaves ; 
And as I gaze awhile and dream, 

Then take another raptured look, 
I hear the music of the stream 

Joining in song the pebbly brook. 

Thanks for the fernery I said. 

And thrice again accept my thanks. 
Its sweets my heart and soul have fed, 

For it all boughten gifts outranks. 
Tho' stormy days be cold and drear. 

With nature it keeps me in tune ; 
It fills life's wintry days with cheer 

And kisses, from the lips of June. 



I'VE HAD GOOD NEWS TODAY 

Rejoice with me, whoever you may be, 
Because my heart is filled with ecstasy. 
The rain has ceased ; the flowers smile again. 
The bees with sweets are coming o'er the plain, 
The birds are singing in the tree-tops high 
And to the earth bends down the soft, blue sky, 
Rejoice with me ! Rejoice with me, I say, 
Rejoice with me ! I've had good news today. 

Rejoice with me! For, thankful it is so, 
My soul this hour with joy is all aglow, 
I hear sweet music in the passing breeze 
And see new beauties in the swaying trees ; 



New sweets come floating to me on the air, 
And children's latighter I hear everywhere — 
Come near, and in my hand your own hand lay; 
Rejoice with me! I've had good news today. 

Rejoice with me, whatever joy you lack, 
And I some day will richly pay you back. 
Into my life, this hour, such pleasures flow, 
How glad I am I want the world to know. 
Here in this letter, written to me, see ! — 
He says tomorrow he with me will be. 
The world looks bright ! — the shadows flee away .' 
Rejoice with me, I've had good news today. 

WHERE GRASSES FIRST GROW GREEN 

From city streets today I flee ; 

And all that lies between 
Me and the slopes I long to see. 

Where grasses first grow green. 

And, as I pass beyond the noise 

Of alley and of street, 
I seem to taste once more the joys 

Of fields with flowers sweet. 

The murmur of the brook I hear 
That runs where alders lean, 

As musingly the slopes I near 
Where grasses first grow green. 

When far the town I leave behind, 

A bird with folded wing 
Upon a leafless bough I find, 

Afraid as yet to sing. 

A patch of snow lies yonder there. 

As tho' it longed to stay, 
And yet a voice says, thro' the air. 

Winter has passed away. 

S4 



So, tho' in things that I pass by 

But little life be seen. 
They of the summer prophesy, 

When all the fields are sreen. 



fc>' 



APRIL'S SONG 

The song that I sing is a promise of joy, 
And its measures are cheerful and bright ; 

No murmurs of sorrow shall longer annoy 
'Neath its rapture of nameless delight. 

There's a radiant warmth in the kiss I impart 
That the chill airs of March drive away. 

That a new inspiration can give to each heart 
And the gloomiest spirit make gay. 

I whisper and waken the leaves in the grass, 
Call to music the insect and bird; 

And, with gentlest of breezes, that merrily pass, 
No sounds but of gladness are heard. 

The smiles I bestow on the orchard and field, 
And my showers abundantly shed, 

To them give a power a harvest to yield 
That the nations of earth may be fed. 



HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE 

Oft, when a child, at night I used to stand 
And watch in wonderment each twinkling star, 

And say in simple words another planned, 
*'Oh, how I wonder, wonder, what you are!" 

Now, ripe with years, in truth I freely state. 

As I behold each twinkling orb afar. 
My wonderment tonight is e'en more great. 

And still 'T wonder, wonder, what you are!" 

85 



MORE SUN THAN SHADE 

If in the heavens there chance to be a cloud, 

Even from which the rain at last may burst, 
Regard it not as aught to make you proud 

If, by keen searching, you discern it first. 
The clouds will gather soon enough, no doubt, 

And veil with frowns the azure overhead, 
But be thou wise and blest in pointing out, — 

In place of cloud, — the bright sunbeam in- 
stead. 
For, look upon things as we will or may, 

E'en tho' the sun himself may sink and fade. 
The darkest night is shorter than the day — 

There is more sunshine in the world than shad^ 



TO A PANSY 

Fair flow'r whose worth I sing, 
Whose richness I adore, 

I only know one thing 

Could make thy beauty more. 

It is to let her eyes. 

So wonderful to see, 
More fair than summer skies, 

Shed their warm light o'er thee. 

Go then, and o'er her breast 
Thy lovely leaves entwine ; 

On thee her eyes will rest 
And make thee more divine. 

IT MIGHT BE WELL 

Come, let us take a little walk! 

We have been busy many days, 
O'erhear the wild birds in their talk. 

And note their ways. 

86 



Come, let us take a little run, 
Across the lane and thro' the wood ; 

A breath of air, a ray of sun. 
May do us good. 

Come, let us pass the time away 

Awhile beside the merry brook : 
It might be well for us today 

To skyward look. 

Come, let us have a little song, 
Tho' all the notes we do not know ; 

Music unto the lips will throng 
Where wild flowers grow. 

You say you will, then forward move, 
O'er hill and dale, and woodland thro'; 

To me the day will joyous prove 
If but with you. 

DUTY 

A youth, whose cheeks with health were all 
aglow. 
Stood where a stream gushed from the moun- 
tains high. 
And said, "Why do you hurry from me so? 
Stay here awhile and watch the clear blue sky." 

The stream replied, as, pausing on its way, 
While yet the sun within the East was new, 

"Because at best so soon will end the day. 
And I ere night have very much to do. 

'T ought to be, ere yet it is high noon, 

Down o'er these heights within the quiet vale. 

So I can join in the enchanting tune 

Of both the bluebird and the nightingale. 

87 



"And I must nourish, as I journey down, 
Each Httle flower in simple beauty dressed, 

'Till it is taken to the far-off town, 

To die in peace upon some fair white breast. 

"I, too, must help to turn the mighty wheel, • 
By which the miller grinds his golden grain. 

Or I to-night will most unhappy feel. 

Knowing my strength has all been spent in 
vain. 

**And I at early eve must slowly pass 

Beneath the bridge on which your sweetheart 
stands, 

That I may be to her a looking-glass 

Wherein to view her lovely face and hands. 

'T, too, must sing as I approach the sea. 

For those whose hearts have waited for me 
long. 
Of that sweet time when they will all be free 
From fret and care, from sorrow and from 
wrong. 

"And when the stars set all the heavens ablaze 
Into the sea I want to slowly wind, 

That to the wharf my strength may help upraise 
Some goodly ship with gifts for all mankind. 

"Now," said the brook, "that you my words have 
heard, 

What is your answer, I would like to know." 
He bowed his head and uttered but a word — 

"I will not keep you from your duty — go!" 



88 



OCTOBER 

She passes thro' the land, 

And with her brush in hand, 
Gives to each vine and leaf a color rare. 

E'en to the sunset's glow, 

She does a tint bestow. 
That makes the world more beautiful and fair. 

Unto the ripening grain, 

Which bends upon the plain. 
Beneath the roguish kisses of the breeze, 

She giveth without stint, 

A rich and varied tint, 
She brought with her across the lakes and seas. 

Her hands artistic seek 

The apple's full, round cheek, 
That to it she a color may impart. 

To grapes upon the vine 

She gives a touch so fine, 
They send a flush of gladness to the heart. 

A BRIDGE IN THE VALE 

Upon a bridge within North Conway's lovely 
vale, 

Which spans a mountain brook. 

Once I my station took 
And leaned in idleness against the rustic rail. 

For hours the music of that brook's unending 
flow 
Broke on my listening ear. 
In notes so sweet and clear. 
That for a time naught else I knew or cared to 
know. 

I watched the pebbles in the silvery, shining sand, 
Which grew more pure and bright 

89 



With every day and night, 
And so I felt my breast with purest thoughts ex- 
pand. 

I raised my eyes at last, when I saw on all sides, 

Birds, flowers, and insects small, 

Which, summoned by its call, 
Were billing, flirting, dancing with their chosen 
brides. 

I saw the thirsty cattle come and drink their fill, 

A dog go plunging in, 

A boy with line and pin, 
Who on the shy young fishes tried his luckless 
skill. 

Anon, too, I beheld the bushes bend with grace, 

And the tall, stately trees. 

Assisted by the breeze. 
View with much pride their forms within its mir- 
ror ring face. 

The sun went down to rest ; the brook flowed on 
the same; 

Slowly I moved aside, — 

When near me I espied 
Two lovers, who to tell their love at evening came. 

Each spoke at intervals in accents sweet and low. 

And this they vowed to do : 

(I wonder were both true?) 
To love each other till that brooklet ceased to 
flow. 

THE MUD 

Why complain of the walking, why snarl at the 

mud 
That frequently covers our walks like a flood? 
W^hy implore your poor soul to indignantly throb 
When the mud gives some penniless bootblack a 

job? 

90 



What, I ask, if the trousers, which cost you so 
dear, 

The mud as it f roHcs dehghts to besmear ? 
Your tailor at night could not rest in his bed 
If his dear little children were crying for bread. 

What if over your coach and your fine thorough- 
bred, "^ 

The mud in its madness rejoices to spread? 

Why frown as the wheels thro' the thoroughfares 
fly? 

It is work which the needs of the masses supply. 

What, pray, if the skirts that you don with such 
grace. 

The mud their immaculate whiteness deface? 

Remember that these, tho' your fate you deplore, 

Must the laundryman back to their cleanness re- 
store. 

But if on some soul in the gutter and mud. 
Your example with one noble impulse shall flood. 
Thro' the gates of that land, you may both pass 

between. 
Where the streets are of gold and the side-walks 

are clean. 



WHERE FIELDS ARE GREEN 

Where fields are green, once more I tread. 

The touch is restful to my feet ; 
The birds are singing o'er my head, 

Their songs, that never seemed more sweet. 

Where fields are green, I walk once more 

The crooked lane to me so dear. 
And, as the stone wall I pass o'er. 

The murmur of the brook I hear. 

91 



Where fields are green, the flowers throw 
Their sweetness on the balmy air, 

And all above and all below 

Seems beautiful beyond compare. 

Where fields are green, I view the trees 

In all their majesty and worth. 
As with their leaves they catch the breeze 

And hand it down to the green earth. 

Where fields are green today I see 
Against the sky the distant hills. 

And health and life flow back to me 
That rob me of my petty ills. 

And as I gaze an Unseen Power 
My faith beholds o'er all the scene. 

Ah ! would that I might make this hour 
An endless day — where fields are green. 



BEAUTIFUL IN DEATH 

The frost my neighbor's flowers has kissed, 
And touched them by his breath ; 

Yet they, that will be so much missed, 
Are beautiful in death. 

They grew in beauty in the spring, 
They felt the warmth of June ; 

The birds above them used to sing 
Their sweetest songs at noon. 

And when the evening shadows crept. 
And stars poured forth their light, 

They never weary grew, nor slept, 
Till they had said good-night. 

92 



I 



When one was taken near or far, 

To bless some sad, wan face. 
Next morning there would straight appear 

Two buds to take its place. 

In July, when the air was hot, 
Their smiles were sweet and good. 

Because they never once forgot 
To bless the neighborhood. 

When August wove her mystic spell 

Their presence would repeat, 
In words as plain as words can tell, 

That life indeed is sweet. 

Amid September's cooling ray 

They grew not cold nor proud ; 
But, when the children passed that way, 

To them they smiled and bowed. 

Unto the aged and the weak. 

The deaf and those who hear. 
They never felt too good to speak 

A word of love and cheer. 

They gave their lives for old and young, 
Nor dreamed of praise or fame : 

And I am grieved because my tongue 
So ill their deeds proclaim. 

Sweet flowers by the white frost kissed, 

And fallen 'neath his breath, 
'Twere strange indeed were you not missed — 

So beautiful in death. 



93 



SONG OF THE MARCH WIND 

I am coming, I am coming, so look out for your 

throat, 
And tighten up your gaiter straps and button up 

your coat; 
I 'gainst your lady's cheeks will brush, and with 

her ringlets flirt. 
And round her form you think so fine will wind 

her faultless skirt. 

I am coming, I am coming across the frozen 

snows, 
To paint the maiden's pale cheek red and pinch 

the schoolboy's nose ; 
Though 'gainst nje for the things I do the good 

housewife may rise, 
In order to be up with her, I'll throw dust in her 

eyes. 

I'll sweep across each street and lane, and climb 

the highest dome. 
And visit each abiding place that mortal man 

calls home ; 
The maiden with her newest hat I'm longing to 

alarm. 
And when I meet an old bent man will pinch him 

in the arm. 

I want to visit every walk where last year's dry 

leaves lie, 
And take them up in my strong arms and toss 

them 'gainst the sky. 
So that the bright sun's cheerful rays, and April's 

hopeful rain, 
Will coax them back to life anew and make them 

bloom again. 



94 



I want to pause at every vine, climb every living 

tree 
From which the birds of summer hope to chant 

their minstrelsy ; 
I trust that I shall have the strength my highest 

wish to crown, 
Which is from each encumbered limb the dead 

wood to blow down. 



A BIRD AND HIS SONG 

Upon a sultry summer's day, 

Far out beneath the trees, 
Ere yet had passed its hours away, 

I sought the cooling breeze. 

As there I sat, I chanced to see 

A bird — a tiny thing — 
That, on a swaying twig near me. 

Enjoyed his evening swing. 

Like me, the bird was all alone, 
No winged friends were there; 

To watch his pretty pranks, I own. 
It was a pleasure rare. 

For as he swung — now up, now down 

In accents sweet and strong. 
That joyous hour he deigned to crown 
With wreath of rapturous song. 

So I was happy once again. 

And, ere he flew away, 
He seemed to say in words quite plain, 

"I wish you, sir, good day." 

Then I was glad I had delayed 

To listen to the end. 
And felt, somehow, that I had made 

Of that dear bird, a friend. 

95 



BOSTON PUBLIC GARDEN, SUNDAY 
AFTERNOON 

Out in the garden, where the air is fragrant 
With bud and blossom vakied above price, 

Wanders the milHonaire beside the vagrant, 
The maid of fortune and the child of vice ; 

The heirs to wealth, glad in their merry laughter, 
■ Beside their parents with their money bags ; 
A short way off, poor children following after, 
Their pinched forms peeping thro' their dress 
of rags. 

With wealth of bloom the shapely trees are bend- 
ing, 
While flowers unnumbered blossom at one's 
feet, 
And the green sward, its borders far extending, 
To rest the eye and make the scene complete. 

Upon a bench a man sits idly dozing. 
Who to the spot for rest has often hied. 

And nearby sits a blushing youth proposing. 
With a sweet maiden smiling by his side. 

Across the sky the clouds are gaily scudding, 
With now and then a bird flying between ; 

These, and the pond, the sun with gold is flood- 
ing. 
To make more glad and beautiful the scene. 

Old age and youth in the same boat are sailing. 
The younger members laughing at the sport; 

The child of health and she whose strength is 
failing ; 
Yet each and all bound for the same last port. 

The granite bridge the rippling waves is span- 
ning. 
O'er which in throngs the people cpme and go, 

96 



Some stopping, looking in the waters, planning 
Only the things their own hearts e'er will 
know. 

Statues of men, and shafts, here tell their story 
To young and old, whoever passes by ; 

Great Washington who sought his country's 
glory, 
Whose name the nation never will let die. 

O, blessed spot, resort of all the people, 

Thy matchless charms we thankfully confess, 

In sight of state house, dome and roof and 
steeple, 
N'er may the years your triumphs render less. 

So, in the garden, Sunday, is reflected 

The forms of life we meet with everywhere; 

Teach on, inspire, till mankind is perfected 
And every wilderness a garden fair. 



VACATION IN MY EASY CHAIR 

The summer, with its heat and glare, 

To me no respite brought. 
And so, with eyes closed,"^ in my chair 

Tonight I roam in thought : 

I ride past townships large and small 

At almost lightning speed. 
Past smoky chimneys high and tall, 

And mill and marsh and mead. 

I stop a hurried lunch to take ; 

Again I get on board, 
And speed past woodland, hill and lake, 

And streams where cattle ford. 

97 



With dust and cinders sticking fast, 

Against which I rebel, 
I reach my journey's end at last 
And start for the hotel. 

It stands just where it did of old. 

And many a guest has won. 
Facing the mountains high and bold, 

And basking in the sun. 

The evening supper I enjoy. 

And life seems glad once more;, 

I see the maidens fair and coy. 
The watchdog on the floor. 

After a pleasant walk and rest 

The band begins to play, 
While youth and maiden, in their best. 

Dance the glad hours away. 

Fashion and beauty meet and blend, 
And naught the pleasure mars ; 

And when at last the sweet strains end, 
I sleep beneath the stars. 

After the quiet, restful sleep 

I rise to pleasures new — 
To climb the mountain tall and steep. 

Or, as I wish, I do. 

And so the days and weeks go past, 

As days are wont to do. 
Too happy very long to last — 

Except for fortune's few. 

Yet I've grown strong, feel young again. 
From weariness am freed ; — 

But soon a trumpet voice speaks plain, 
''Back — duty calls you — speed!" 

98 



I've seen the mountains, and am glad ; 

I've drunk the heavenly air; 
A long vacation I have had, — 

Yet have not left my chair ! 

TO LET 

To let: — near the fence in my yard, in a tree, 
Where the breezes will rock it the whole sum- 
mer long, 
And where in hot days it in shadow will be, 
To some bird f or"^ a nest, a bough good and 
strong. 

The bough is now ready, with leaves overrun. 
And no neighbor or foe can the nest ever 
wrong ; 
While no favor I ask him but this simple one, 
That th« rent shall be paid by one glad, happy 
song. 

SOW FLOWER SEEDS 

Sow flower seeds beside your door 

That soon they may come forth and bloom; 
To you the summer will mean more 

If for bright buds you but make room. 
Sow flower seeds about the porch 

That it with beauty may o'erflow; 
So, should the sun of August scorch. 

They may their cooling breath bestow. 

Sow flower seeds beside the fence ; 

And, if they blossom, as they will. 
Then honey bees, with joy intense. 

Will from their lips rich sweets distill. 
Sow flower seeds within your heart, 

That flowers may bloom that never fade ; 
So will they be of you a part, 

And life be sweeter, purer made. 
99 

tOFC. 



THE BIRDS ARE COMING BACK 

Through all the days of winter cold, 

With snow and ice and frost, 
The birds we loved so to behold 

Have to our sight been lost; 
And, though their places naught can fill, 

Our hearts now nothing lack. 
Because o'er meadow, stream and hill 

The birds are coming back. 

When autumn days grew bleak and drear, 

And winds the dead leaves stirred. 
Their songs died out upon our ear, 

Nor have they since been heard; 
We grieved when they went far away, 

While skies with clouds grew black; 
But joy is in our hearts today — 

The birds are coming back. 

They went where Southern skies were fair 

A glad and joyous throng — 
And poured out on the balmy air 

Their sweetest Northern song; 
But hearing that our hearts are sad 

Since they so distant roam, 
In newer, fairer plumage clad. 

Our birds are coming home. 

A BRUISED AND FADED LEAF 

I saw a bruised and faded leaf 

Blow down the dusty way. 
And, as it journeyed to its grave. 

To me it seemed to say : — 

Once high on yonder stately tree, 

I helped to form a shade, 
'Neath which the birds of summer sang, 

And happy children played. 
100 



From where my brief life ran its course, 

I viewed the world below, 
I often heard its shout of joy 

And oft its wail of woe. 

The throng that daily passed me by 

Composed an endless chain; 
And some went by with weary feet. 

Who ne'er came back again. 

No troop of mourners follow me 

To my last resting place, 
No eulogist with studied words 

My life's short record trace. 

He only knows my last abode 

Who called me here to be. 
And when in death your head lies low, 

It may be so with thee. 

IMPATIENT 

Somehow I feel quite ill at ease. 

Now March is drawing to a close ; 
I am impatient for the breeze 

That bears away the winter's snows. 
I want to feel, upon my cheek. 

The warm breath of returning Spring; 
Again the brook I want to seek 

Where once the robins used to sing. 

I know, from 'neath the ice and frost. 

The flowers to me will come again, — 
The fragrant ones I loved and lost 

When fell last fall the frozen rain. 
And, though I must abide the time 

To see what joys the Spring may bring. 
The hills again I long to climb 

Where once the robins used to sing. 

101 



The hill, that nearest heaven doth rise, 

I want to climb, at Spring's first dawn, 
And look, — and even strain mine eyes, — 

To find which way her feet have gone, - 
She, who to me would always cling 

As we the hills oft used to climb. 
Who made my life as glad as Spring 

And all my days a sunlit time. 



THINGS OUTSIDE ARE CALLING ME 

In home just now I take no pride. 
And in it find but small delight: 

How can I, when all things outside 
So temptingly my soul invite? 

For big stuffed chairs I do not care. 
They, like the carpets, dull appear, 

Now that the warm, sweet, summer air 
Whispers, so wooingly, ''Come here!" 

The rooms are cared for each new day. 
And yet dust clings to everything; 

While birds outside call me, and say, 
"Come out awhile, and hear us sing!" 

The pictures are in place, but still 

In them I little beauty see, 
When joyous brooks, beyond the hill, 

So siren-like are calling me. 

Yet, that I love my home as well 

As most of men, I still insist ; 
But now the birds, the flowers, the dell, 

Call me — and I cannot resist. 



102 



SEED TIME AND HARVEST 

Read at the Houghton Exhibition, at Odd Fel- 
lows Hall, Lynn, Mass., Sept. 28th, 1894. 

The years roll round; bless'd springtime comes. 
On wings of cheer, o'er hill and plain; 

And all that winter's chill benumbs, 
She animates with life again. 

The streams throw off their icy chains, 
Which melt and to the ocean flow ; 

The clouds send down their helpful rains, 
And flowers look upward through the snow. 

The sun mounts his triumphant car, 

And through the heavens rides in peace, 

Telling to man, both near and far, 
Plant now, nor question the increase. 

A thousand happy singing throats 

Invite him well his task to do; 
And in his ears pour their best notes. 

From morn till eve, the season through. 

The leaves dance gaily in the trees. 

To make his daily toil more light, 
And every murmur of the breeze 

Conspires to fill him with delight. 

Encouraged by all outward things. 
And knowing well his inward needs, 

He turns the furrow as he sings. 

Makes light the soil and kills the weeds. 

He sows the seed, then patient waits 

'Till it obtains the power to rise ; 
He sees it burst its prison gates — 

Break through the earth, and greet the skies, 

103 



So, through the summer, by his care, 
What he has planted swells and grows, 

Aided alike by dew and air, 

And all the changes nature knows. 

He sees the tasseling corn grow sweet 
With the rich milk the full ears hold. 

Counts the large pumpkins at his feet 
And feels their worth is more than gold. 

He views the grain more perfect grow, 
The cabbages increase each day, 

And feels his cheeks with richness glow 
When harvest is not far away. 

Up from the earth his face he turns. 
And far as eye or wish can reach. 

He sees the sunbeam, as it burns 
Its rich, red line on pear and peach. 

The apple boughs, that yester morn 

Were filled with blossoms pure and sweet, 

Today with baldwins red are borne 

Down, till they kiss the ripened wheat. 

Since kind old nature freely pours 
Her matchless gifts on every hand, 

Tis well to open wide these doors 
And show the products of the land. 

And, as our eyes in wonder gaze 

On apple large or pansy small. 
Our hearts go up in thankful praise 

To Him the cause and source of all. 



104 



A BREATH OF JUNE 

Across the fields, once green and fair, 
Today the snow of winter blows ; 

Yet, thro' the cold, crisp, white-winged air, 
I send to you a small red rose. 

Plucked from the bush, its end and death 
Whene'er it comes, will come too soon; 

Yet I were happy if a breath 
It yields to you of June. 



COMPENSATED 

Some people of the heat complain. 

And think it quite unfair. 
That Nature does not send some rain 

To cool the sultry air ; 
At every one they chance to meet 

They moan or cast a sigh, 
But O ! I like these days of heat, 

And I will tell you why. 

'Tis not because the roses throw 

Their perfume 'round my feet. 
Or that fresh salmon is sold low. 

And green peas are so sweet; 
'Tis not that through the stately wood 

I walk alone and dream. 
Or that the bubbling spring tastes good 

That feeds the mountain stream. 

Tis not that 'mid the lofty trees 

The singing birds appear. 
Or that from out the evening breeze 

Sweet music fills my ear; 
'Tis not that through the fountain's spray 

The stars of evening gleam. 
Or that because at close of day 

So cooling is ice-cream. 
105 



I love these long, sweet summer days 

Because upon the street, 
Going a thousand different ways, 

The ladies that we meet 
Their dresses dark as gloom and night 

Have hid from mortal view, 
And glide about with footsteps light 

In garments white and new. 

Though some girls may look well in blue, 

And others well in pink. 
While green, no doubt, becomes a few, 

I very strongly think 
A woman never looks so fair, 

Nor so can man delight, — 
Whatever others choose to wear — 

As when arrayed in white. 

MARCH WINDS AND APRIL BLOOM 

Some people of March winds complain, 
And things severe, unkindly say; 

From such a course my lips refrain — 
I choose to look beyond today. 

This broader view I rather take; 

Tho' raw, at times, may blow the breeze, 
It holds the power will help to shake 

The April bloom out on the trees. 



NATURE'S GREETING 

This is the season of the year 

When nature, with her varied charms. 
To those who love her would draw near 

With broad, wide-open arms. 

With light and merry dancing feet. 
Onward toward such she gayly trips; 

106 



And for them, wheresoe'er they meet, 
Has kisses for their Hps. 

Her voice is sweet, her step is strong, 
And for all those who will but hear, 

A very hopeful, cheering song 
She pours into their ear. 

Her touch and presence make to flow 
The sluggish blood within their veins ; 

And all who forth to meet her go 
Are well paid for their pains. 

Go out to her, from street and lane ; 

Forget the hurry of the throng; 
She brings to you, o'er hill and plain. 

Life's new elixir strong. 



A WHOLE DAY OFF 

A whole day off, with naught to do. 
Of care and labor both relieved; 

A full, round day, can it be true. 
Or am I cruelly deceived? 

A full day off beneath the trees, 

To watch the rippling stream go past ; 

To hear the birds and hum of bees. 
And only wish that it could last. 

A whole day off where skies are fair, 

Where leaf and flower their joys impart; 

Where peace and health are in the air, 
And no ambitions goad the heart. 

A full day off where nature's touch 

Her quiet haunts with beauty wreathe; 

A full day off, it means so much. 

With naught to do but just to breathe. 

107 



THE BIRD'S REPLY 

What's your mission, little bird, 
To this world so cold and drear? 

I with joy your songs have heard, 
From my window, many a year. 

Oft with thee my lunch was shared, 
And you gave me good return; 

Why have you so long been spared? 
Please reply; I wish to learn. 

Others I have seen like you, 
But so soon they flew away, 

While your song is ever new, 
And it cheers me day by day. 

First of all the birds you come. 
And the longest you remain ; 

Tell me why, — you are not dumb ; 
Longer silence gives me pain. 

Thus I did the birdling chide ; 

Thus the bird replied to me: 
*'Tho' the world be great and wide, 

I but live to sing for thee !" 



THE SNOWFLAKE 

Born in the confines of a cloud. 

Beyond where bird e'er soars or sings, 
To be expelled before endowed 

Even with aid of feet or wings, 
In self I have no power to rise, 

A fragile creature, weak and small ; 
So but one course before me lies, 

Which is, alas ; to fall — and fall. 
Here I am happy, good and pure, 

And hosts of friends are at my side; 

108 



O, how can I the thought endure 

Of being anything beside! 
But I must fall — this much I know, 

For it is part of nature's plan 
That I, a snowflake, earthward go 

To be stamped out by foot of man. 
Yet, 'tis not for me to complain 

That I must fall, 'mid soil of earth; 
In some new form I'll rise again — 

In some new cloud to have new birth. 



OUR NEW ENGLAND ROBIN 

Sing, robin with the golden throat 

And plumage soft and fair, 
And let your strains of music float 

Out on the warm, sweet air. 

You come a herald of the spring 

To greet the waking year. 
And in whatever key you sing. 

Your song is one of cheer. 

You chant no requiem of regret 

Our pulses warm to chill. 
But every strain you sing is set 

Our hearts with hope to fill. 

You do not sing of days gone by. 

Of failure and decay, 
But in each effort nobly try 

To joyous make today. 

Although the words you strive to sing 

Are not all understood. 
This much of praise to you we bring — 

They nothing are but good. 

Thanks, robin, for your cheerful notes, 
That ring New England through, 

109 



How many human hearts and throats 
Could lessons learn of you. 

The South may boast of birds more rare, 
The West name her's with pride, 

To us none can with you compare, 
And we are satisfied. 



WHERE IS EVERYBODY? 

I wonder where are all the boys 
Who usually the dooryard throng? 

Why, how I miss their wonted noise ! 
There surely must be something wrong. 

Where, too, I wonder, are the girls 
Who dot the sidewalk and the lawn? 

They, with their laughing eyes and curls — 
I wonder where they all have gone! 

Where are the babies — bless their hearts ! 

The babies with their faces fair ; 
Somehow a horror in me starts, 

Since not one I see anywhere. 

Where are the strong and hearty youth, 
Whose look and presence gives delight? 

'Tis hard to feel, yet 'tis the truth, 
There is not even one in sight. 

The women, too, why, where are they? 

Women whose presence oft has charmed 
And here it is near close of day. 

Why, really, I am quite alarmed. 

Where are the men, both young and old. 
Whose smile and handclasp I so need? 

I pause to think, my heart grows cold ; 
Why, this is horrible indeed! 

110 



Both day and twilight ebb and fade, 
There is not e'en a soul in reach — 

Stop ! It is ninety in the shade, 
And everybody's at the beach. 

AN APRIL FLOWER 

Across the fields they walked one day, 
An April day of shade and sun, 

A thousand flowers stood in their way, 
He plucked for her the brightest one. 

She took it, but said not a word, 
Nor was it wise for him to speak. 

For something in her being stirred 
That gave new color to her cheek. 

Something that told him she was sweet, 

In fact a bud of loveliness, 
And soon to make her joy complete 

He felt he could not tell her less. 

They parted, as so many must. 

For o'er one's life what one has power ? 

In tears today, upon her dust. 

He lays the same blue April flower. 

AT THE LIBRARY 

One pleasant day, not long ago, 

Feeling of rest in need, 
I entered in, with footsteps slow. 

Where people go to read. 

'Twas in Lynn's public library, 

A structure grand and fair, 
Where just one soul, not counting me. 

Sat calmly reading there. 

Ill 



Scores, hundreds — yes, and even more 

When they are so incHned, 
To draw from knowledge's great store, 

Room there can always find. 

And yet, though we were there alone, - 

So fair was she of face, 
The room was full — the fact I own — 

Her beauty filled the place. 



I THINK OF THEE 

When from the east the golden sun 

Showers with brightness land and sea, 
My purest thoughts avert toward one — 
I think of thee. 

At noon, when from the heavens clear 

He poureth down his warmth so free, 
I think of her to me most dear, 
I think of thee. 

At eve when sinking in the west. 

Hiding his florid face from me, 
I think of her my heart loves best, 
I think of thee. 

Sleeping or waking, day or night. 

In crowded mart or fragrant lea. 
To one alone my thoughts take flight, 
I think of thee. 

And, as through life I onward move. 

To that unknown eternity. 
My acts to all the world shall prove, 
I think of thee. 



112 



AND YOU — JUST YOU! 

I only have a few small needs, 

A house, a lot or two; 
A little garden free from weeds. 

And you — just you ! 

A bed of flowers, trim and small, 
Some pink, some red, some blue, 

A clinging vine against the wall, 
And you — just you ! 

A room or two, with carpets neat. 

And pictures fair but few, 
Would make life's outfit quite complete, 

With you — just you! 

A table cover, smooth and white, 
Spread 'neath a roast or stew. 

Would satisfy my appetite. 
With you — just you ! 

A chair beside a modest hearth, 
When my day's task was thro'. 

Would be all I could crave on earth — 
With you — just you ! 

All these but one I now possess; 

How well you know 'tis true. 
That only one means happiness 

To me — that's you ! 



WHEN HE IS GONE 

When he is gone, how dark the night! 
Nor even does the day seem bright, 

When he is gone. 
The birds do not pause on the wing 

113 



And 'round the old porch doorway chng, 
Their sweetest songs of joy to sing, — 
When he is gone. 

The roses do not seem as sweet, 
Somehow, as when we used to meet, 

But he is gone. 
At evening as I sit and gaze 
Into the heavens with stars ablaze, 
I only think of other days. 

Now he is gone. 

The world at large seems far less gay, 
The kitten, even, will not play. 

When he is gone. 
Within my heart there is no song, 
But saddest thoughts the hours prolong; 
To feel a joy would do him wrong — 

When he is gone. 

I wonder if he thinks of me 
Today, wherever he may be, 

For he is gone. 
I wonder shall I ope my eyes 
Some morning, and with glad surprise 
Tell him how soon my poor heart dies- 

When he is gone. 



WHAT SHE WOULD ADD 

"Sir, send my letters back," she said. 
As high she tossed her pretty head. 
While from her eyes a beauty shone 
That e'en the stoutest heart must own. 

Abashed, the young man deeply sighed. 
And, when he found the courage, cried : 
"My own, my sweet, what have I done? 
I thought that I your heart had won." 

114 



Her arms around his neck she threw, 
Close to his breast her form he drew; 
And, as he gave her Hps a smack, 
He asked, "Why do you want them back? 

"What word would you erase, explain? 
Providing you had them again ?" 
"O give them back, I pray, beseech, 
A postscript I would add to each ! 

"Though each confesses love for you. 
This postscript I would add thereto : 
'Without, you, come what will, what may, 
I cannot live another day.' " 



YOUR DEAR, SWEET FACE 

The day may radiant be with warmth and light, 

The birds may sing and flowers bloom fair and 
sweet. 
The stars may glorify the heavens at night, 

While all the world with pleasure seems re- 
plete ; 
Yet, though despondent I'm not wont to be. 

Deep in my heart will sorrow find a place. 
If, seeking thro' the day, I do not see 

Your dear, sweet face. 

But, if the day be dreary, dark and cold, 

And chilling rain or snow-flakes fill the air, 
If skies above not e'en one bright star hold. 

And angry winds be moaning everywhere, 
Yet Nature's sorrows cannot sadden me. 

Nor on my happiness leave e'en a trace. 
If only it be given me to see 

Your dear, sweet face. 



111 



IF ALL THE WORLD WERE GOOD, 
LIKE YOU 

If all the world were good, like you, 
There were no need of prison cells, 

Nor armed policemen walking thro' 
The streets, where oft disorder dwells. 

The lawyers' fees would half be gone, 
For feuds and bickerings would cease ; 

The sword need never more be drawn 
For all the world would be at peace. 

The daily papers would not flame 

With crimes and scandals on each page, 

And every issue would not name 
Some being lost thro' love or rage. 

There were no need of pulpits high, 

From which men might their theories give; 

For who would be afraid to die 
If they were but prepared to live ? 

But, ah! we are not all like you. 
Because with us, from foot to brow. 

Passions and sins our veins run thro' — 
And so things will remain as now. 

Perhaps, before the day shall close, 
A score will join, in one wild chime, 

To ask me who it was I chose 
To be the subject of my rhyme. 

Can she be one of flesh and blood? 

If so, where lives she ? What's her name ? 
The world her sacred form would flood 

With gleams of everlasting fame. 

She is too fair, too good, too pure. 

To be composed of earthly dust ; 
From every sin she rests secure 

Upon my desk — A Marble Bust. 

116 



PEACE BE WITH YOU 

Peace be with you ! No matter if my breast 
Shall never know an hour of quiet rest, 
If strife forever rend my peace apart, 
This is the worst wish coming from my heart — 
Peace be with you ! 

No matter tho' my feet must always tread 
The paths so long by thorns and brambles fed, 
Or, if a sorrow's burden I must bear, 
This still shall be for you my only prayer — 
Peace be with you ! 

What tho' my friends shall prove to me untrue, 
And enemies my way through life pursue, 
Still will I raise my eyes to heaven and plead — 
E'en tho' my hands, my heart, my soul may 
bleed — 

Peace be with you ! 



A PATH 

I tread a path, tho' its extremest length 
Somehow it is not now for me to know ; 
And so I daily, nightly, onward go. 
While I have strength. 

I start anew each morning when I rise, 
And seldom stop or loiter by the way. 
And yet the end I cannot see today. 
With my dim eyes. 

If filled with more sharp brambles, thorns or 
dust 
Than any past, that now is left behmd, 
it has not been revealed unto my mind, — 
And so I trust. 

117 



It may be, that it leads far over hills 
More steep and wild than any I have known, 
And yet the anguish of no anxious moan 
My bosom fills. 

Because in faith the path I still pursue. 
If it be filled with dangers dire or not, 
Sustained and blessed in the soul-cheering 
thought, 

It leads to you. 



THE ONE DEAR FACE 

At early morn, when hurrying feet 
Across the pavements come and go, 

I pass into the crowded street 
To note the faces that I know. 

And when humanity's great tide 
At noon, in all directions flows, 

My heart with longings deep supplied, 
I count each face that past me goes. 

Again at night, with thoughtful tread, 
I pace the crowded thoroughfare. 

And in my eagerness am led 

To scan each face that I meet there. 

But, in the warmth that spring supplies, 
And in the cool of autumn's rain. 

With beating heart and anxious eyes, 
I look and long and peer in vain. 

Yet hope across my pathway gleams, 
For Heaven assists me to be strong, 

And sends me visions in my dreams 
Of the dear face for which I long. 

118 



MAY SUNSHINE FALL ON YOU 

Whate'er of ill the years for me may hold 
Of darkest cloud, or damp and chilly dew, 

Winds bleak in winter and in autumn cold. 
May sunshine fall on you! 

Tho' o'er the road 'tis doomed my feet must go 
Where brambles are, and thorns the path be- 
strew. 

May fate with an unstinted hand bestow 
Her sweetest flowers on you ! 

Tho' pleasure's cup my lips may never press, 
And disappointment all my hopes pursue, 

May peace, and health, and every happiness 
Fall lavishly on you! 

If toil and labor are to be my lot. 

Each morning bring a burden that is new, 

Tho' I by wealth and leisure am forgot. 
May both be showered on you ! 

But if the curious should ask if e'er 

I'd had a friend whom I had found untrue, 

I'd ask your heart, and 'twould be my despair 
To find un faith in you. 



THE REASON WHY 

Why did he, holding still my hand. 
Admire my cheeks and eyes of blue. 

And, from my lips, a vow demand 
That I to him would e'er be true ? 

Why did he, as we walked the shore. 
And gathered shells till day grew dim, 

Declare my presence became more 
And more a source of joy to him? 

119 



Why, as we strolled the trees among, 
Breathing the scent of flowers fair, 

While birds of gayest plumage sung, 

And faith and love seemed everywhere — 

Why did he, sitting at twilight, 
Relate to me his hopes and fears. 

Till my red cheeks blanched deathly white, 
And my blue eyes were drowned in tears? 

And when, one night, he plucked a rose 

And placed it in my wavy hair, 
Why did he then to me propose — 

And I accept him then and there ? 

Since I the reason oft have asked, 
Perhaps I best the same can tell. 

Tis this, he loved me first and last, 
And I had loved him long and well. 



SIMPLE GIFTS 

To you my gifts I like to bear, 
Tliough they no value great possess, 

A ribbon for your lovely hair — 
A modest flower for your dress ; 

A dainty piece of soft white lace 
Around your fair neck to entwine ; 

A tiny handkerchief to grace 

Your rose-tipped fingers, small and fine; 

Some little trinket, or a charm. 
To place within your quiet room, 

To guard your sleeping hours from harm - 
Your waking ones from every gloom; 

120 



A mirror wherein you may ;>ee, 
While yet the smiHng day is new, 

A face that is so dear to me 

Because I know your heart is true. 

On you small gifts I can bestow, 
Because aside they are not tossed, 

Although in reason well you know 
How very small a sum they cost. 

And, if I but the courage find 

Some day to buy a simple ring, 
I feel it will not be declined 

Though diamonds round it do not cling. 

TO A STAR 

Dear little star that shines so bright. 

Toward you my heart this moment leaps; 

Keep watch above the roof tonight 

'Neath which my precious darling sleeps, 

And when the cooling breeze goes by. 
Freighted with sweets from flowery vale, 

Direct it to her room to fly 

That she its perfume may inhale. 

And when the nightingale appears. 
See that near by he rests his wing. 

And pours into my dear one's ear 
The sweetest song that he can sing. 

Should aught appear to do her harm. 
Speed thou bright star to her defence. 

The myriad hosts of heaven alarm. 
And this shall be your recompense: 

The highest praise my lips can frame 
And richest thanks will I express,^ 

Should you ask more I will yield claim 
Of anything that I possess. 

121 



THE LOVER'S GOOD NIGHT 

To all the world, good night! My heart 

E'en now is free from pain; 
To all my joy I would impart — 

For we have met again. 

Good night ! Content I lay me down, 
N'o more to doubtings to give place, 

E'en tho' the skies upon me frown — 
For I have seen her face. 

To troubled thought, I bid good night! 

Time's wrongs let me forget a while. 
And in the present take delight — 

For I have seen her smile. 

Good night ! How bright the future seems. 
As tho' by some good angel planned, 

For I believe tonight, in dreams. 
That I shall touch her hand. 



BEAUTIFUL TO HIM 

What if the world may never lay 

Its honors at your feet? 
What if the crowd shall never say 

Her beauty is complete. 
This need not cause your anxious heart 

With anguish deep to brim. 
What matters it, if you are fair 

And beautiful to him ? 

What if no sculptor's hand shall seek 

To carve, in marble white, 
Your form to fill the critic's mind 

With wonder and delight? 
What matters it, if fair or not, 

Your figure round or slim. 
If you are fair to one, at least — 

Are beautiful to him? 
122 



What if no famous artist's brush 

Shall ever seek to trace, 
Upon the canvas, for the throng 

The outlines of your face? 
What would it all avail, I ask, 

When he his task has done, 
Because, what matters it to you 

If you are fair to one? 

What if no poet's lines proclaim 

The beauty of your arms. 
The whiteness of your rounded neck. 

The richness of your charms? 
What if the world may never say 

Your eyes are bright or dim? 
It is enough, since you are fair 

And beautiful to him ? 

TELL ME 

Tell me, ye flowers sweet 

That, with your fragrance, bend 
To kiss her pretty feet. 

And all her ways attend — 
Tell me, fair flowers, will she, 

Whate'er the days may bring. 
Will she be true to me? 

From their sweet blossoming, 
As bowed their heads in tenderness, 

They softly answered — "Yes!" 

Tell me, ye birds who wing 

Her lovely garden through. 
Who come to hear her sing 

While yet the day is new — 
Will she, ye little birds, 

Who catch, from bush and tree, 
The sweetness of her words, 

Will she be true to me ? 

123 



They sang a song, my heart to bless, 
And softly caroled — *'Yes !" 

Tell me, ye stars of light 

That set the heavens aglow, 
And guard her through the night, 

Do you her secrets know? 
Tell me — you are not dumb — 

And I will worship you. 
Will she, whate'er may come, 

To me be always true? 
One said, "We should the truth confess," 

And then all answered — *'Yes!" 

Tell me, ye winds that chase 

Each other past her door. 
That you may touch her face 

And bow her charms before — 
Tell* me, and tell me now. 

Ere you your way pursue. 
Have you e'er heard her vow 

To me she would be true ? 
"We heard her — yes!" the winds replied; 

So I am satisfied. 



I WISH YOU WELL 

I wish you well ; no matter if to me 

The coming years shall no sweet story tell. 

And far from me shall fly prosperity — 
I wish you only well ! 

I wish you well ; altho' that peace of mind. 

That all souls crave, no more with me may 
dwell ; 

Even if this be so, I feel inclined 
To wish you only well. 

I wish you well ; whate'er my failings be. 
And I in little that I wish excel, 

124 



Tho' I your face on earth no more may see, 
I wish you only well. 

I wish you well ; I feel all that I say, 
Whatever way the winds my bark propel, 

About you may the brightest sunbeams play ; 
Goodby ; I wish you well ! 

A ROSE OF YESTERDAY 

She had a little plot of land. 

She raked it o'er with care. 
Then, with her own sweet, tender hand 

She placed a rosebush there. 

That bush I early learned to prize, 

For I soon came to know 
She, with the brown, confiding eyes, 

So loved to see it grow. 

She took some sticks and strands of wire, 

And guarded it about, 
Because it was her heart's desire 

To see the flowers shoot out. 

One morn I passed her cottage door, 
While summer winds blew free. 

When the first rose its branches bore 
She plucked — and gave to me. 

Ere winter three times sent her snows, 

Her spirit passed away; 
And yet the fragrance of that rose 

Is in my life today. 

THINK IT NOT STRANGE 

Think it not strange, tho' he calls not 
As often as in days of yore, 

Nor that you have been quite forgot 
Because he enters not your door. 

125 



Of him you are no less a part 
Tho' you all day see not his face, 

Because for you within his heart 
There is an ever 'biding place. 

E'en tho' at morn or evening-tide 
He does not come to talk with you 

It proves not love has turned aside 
Or that he is the least untrue. 

Because your pathways seldom touch, 
Think not his love gone to decay; 

'Tis that he loves you, oh, too much 
That from you he must keep away. 



GIVE ME YOUR HAND! 

The hour has come when we must part for aye, 
Each one to go henceforth a separate way ; 
Yet, ere upon that journey long we start, 
Which further bears us every day apart, 
Give me your hand ! 

Perhaps it may not be so out of place 
For me to look once more into your face. 
And note if you have changed since first we met, 
And, if you do with any great regret, 
Give me your hand ! 

In doing so, it may perhaps help you 
To still remember I was ever true ; 
And, tho' fate has decreed that she no more 
Has happiness for us like that of yore. 
Give me your hand ! 

The moments hasten and the end draws near. 
What do I see? Ah, 'tis a gathering tear. 
'Tis hard as death to part from such a friend, 
But earthly friendships all must have an end, 
Give me your hand! 

126 



SHE COMES 

She comes. I know it by the way 

The flowers their perfumed wealth outpour ; 
And, too, because the song birds play 

About the hedges as of yore. 

The sunbeams dance upon the lawn 
With footsteps light as fairy feet, 

While whisp'ring voices all the mom 
Have told me that today we meet. 

The world and all around looks bright. 
Doubt and misgivings disappear; 

Well may my heart beat free and light. 
She comes — I see her — she is here ! 

Once more I see her face and smile ; 

O, gladsome day, O, hour of bliss ! 
Let me be silent now awhile, 

For words would mar an hour like this. 

THE SONGS I SING 

My songs, if neither grand nor loud, 

Nor any portion of them sweet, 
Of them I still must e'er be proud 

If they but your approval meet. 
My songs for ages may not live 

To be repeated far and wide ; 
If they to you one joy but give, 

In them I ever must take pride. 

My songs may never have a place 

With those that so the world delight; 
If in them you some merit trace, 

I ask for them no greater height. 
The songs I sing may power lack 

'Mid famous songs to hold their part. 
And yet I would not call them back, 

If only one has touched your heart. 
127 



JUST AS SWEET 

Back from her long vacation days 

The summer girl once more has come, 

Unchanged, no doubt, in many ways, 
If she has changed in some. 

Though she has slightly older grown, 
She still retains a youthful air, 

And even her sweet rivals own 
She still is very fair. 

Her eyes and cheeks with beauty glow. 
And though, perhaps, we seldom meet. 

This I confess, because I know — 
Her lips are just as sweet. 



RETURN 

Return, return, the night wind sighs. 

No star in all the sky I see. 
I long to look into your eyes ; 

Why wish a truant still to be ? 

Return, return, the flowers fade; 

Their breath I find no longer sweet. 
The birds no more my heart invade. 

Their songs of triumph to repeat. 

Return, return, the days are weeks. 

And O, the nights, how long are they! 

Return, my soul in anguish speaks ; 
Return, and change my night to day. 

Return, return, I can forget. 

And none more soon than I forgive. 

The heart that loved thee loves thee yet; 
Return, that I again may live. 

128 



A SERENADE 

Sleep, darling, sleep! May angels' wings 
Fold soft above thy head tonight, 

And not withdraw, till morning brings 
Again to earth her golden light. 

Sleep, darling, sleep; and may sweet rest 
Refresh thee with its holy balm, 

And heaven's great love thy guileless breast 
Defend from every form of harm. 

Sleep, darling, sleep! If rest complete 
Ere morning breaks shall come to thee, 

And bright dreams follow, — it were sweet 
If they contained one thought of me. 



UNDIMMED BY TEARS 

The sombre color of her dress, 

In which her shapely form's concealed, 

In words extremely plain, express 
A sorrow only partly healed. 

For she has had her hour of grief ; 

Yet, as he thinks of her tonight, 
This enters into his belief — 

Tears have not made her eyes less bright. 

Or, if they have, he must confess, 
The mo,re he thinks the matter o'er, 

He would not even dare to guess 

How bright they must have been before. 

AT THE GATE 

Why do you still delay? 
I toil all day, and when my task it done 
I journey home, and then from set of sun 

129 



'Till darkness gathers and the hour is late, 
I watch for you alone beside the gate. 
Why do you still delay? 

Why do you still delay? 
All day I try to think that when 'tis night, 
When all the stars are shining clear and bright, 
Your loving feet will pass the gateway through, 
And I once more your fair, sweet face will view. 

And yet you still delay. 

Why do you still delay? 
When summer comes, and decks with flowers the 

plain, 
I surely think that you will come again, 
But autumn nears, with sheaves of ripened wheat, 
And still I wait in vain, with welcome sweet ; 

Why do you still delay ? 

Why do you still delay? 
If you but knew how oft and hard I pray 
From me you would not, could not stay away. 
But your dear feet would enter through the gate 
At which for you I watch so long and late, — 

And yet you still delay. 



YOU SHALL NOT GO 

You shall not go! 
I want you near me when the morn's first beams 
Break o'er a world just waking from her dreams. 
I want you near when morn's bright sun is high, 
And when the evening whispers night is nigh. 

You shall not go ! 

You shall not go ! 
Nay, do not go! From me you must not part. 
The pang would rend in twain my beating heart. 

130 



Let cruel fate take all I have beside, 

But leave me you, and I am satisfied ! 

You shall not go ! 

You shall not go ! 
Though other lips may say it would be wise. 
Their hearts are stone, their tongues a source of 

lies. 
Around your life my highest hopes entwine. 
Ah ! leave me not, for you alone are mine. 

You shall not go ! 

WHEN I SHALL LIVE 

Come to me, love, I am lonely tonight. 

Shield my bowed head from the fast gath'ring 
dew, 

Then will my sadness be turned to delight — 
All my life's happiness centers in you. 

Come to me, love, ere the night-wind grows cold, 
Wait not, O sweet, till the last star has set, 

Come to me, love, as you oft came of old. 
And all but you I will gladly forget. 

Come to me, love, ere the nightingale's song 
Spends its last note in an unanswered prayer, 

Come to me, sweet, and not longer prolong 
My evening of gloom and my night of despair. 

Sadness about me her shadows has thrown. 
And the relief I implore you can give. 

Come to me, love, I am dying alone. 

Come to me, darling, and then I shall live. 

HAD I THE GIFT 

Had I the gift a song to write, 

One that the world would pause to hear, 
And that would thrill with great delight 

Whoever heard it, far and near, — 
131 



Could I but write a song- so sweet, 

So perfect in its harmony, 
That rills its measures would repeat, 

As they flow onward to the sea — 

Could 1 compose a song* so pure 

That brooks would join to it their lay, 

And I could every bird secure 

To sing its numbers night and day, — 

What do you think my theme would be, 
That would run all its measures thro' ? 

That song in its entirety, 

From first to last, would be of you ! 

WHEN I WAS ILL 

He brought me flowers when I was ill, 

And placed them where I saw them bloom ; 

And all the while they used to fill 
With perfume delicate my room. 

I was a maiden, young and fair. 
And he had culture, rank and wealth; 

The flowers, and his kindly care. 

Helped lure me back to hope and health. 

But now, that I am well and strong. 
No more he comes — he passes by; 

And, tho' I would not do him wrong, 
I wish that he had let me die. 

COME TO ME TONIGHT! 

Altho' the day has been a day of splendor, 
And sunshine filled the world with warmth 
and light, 

I have not looked into your eyes so tender — 
And so, dear one, O, come to me tonight ! 

132 



The hours have brought their fund of joy and 
gladness, 

And fair rewards have filled me with delight, 
And yet, thro' all there was a tinge of sadness. 

Since you came not — so come to me tonight ! 

Tho' worldly joys life's pathway may be throng- 
ing, 

And human wishes gain the topmost height, 
Deep in the soul there is a ceaseless longing 

For something higher — so draw near tonight ! 

All outward things that we so prize and cherish, 
Like wealth and power and glory, time will 
blight, 

But holy thoughts you give can never perish — 
So raise me to your saintly self tonight! 



AT EVENTIDE 

The day is drawing to a peaceful closing; 

The stars the arch of heaven are breaking 
thro' ; 
Beside the evening fire I sit and, dozing, 

I think of only one — and that one you. 

And with you, too, the day is slowly ending, 
If far away or near you chance to be. 

What would I give to know your thoughts are 
tending, 
If not so lovingly, but yet toward me. 

LET ME FORGET 

Let me forget that you e'er said 
One word to me that was unkind. 

But let me try to think instead 
'Twas but a fancy of my mind. 

133 



Let me forget you ever cast 

On me one cold and chilling frown, 

But let me seek, while life shall last, 
To try and live its memory down. 

Let me forget you e'er withdrew 
Your hand in anger from my own. 

But try to think it was not you 
Who was to blame, but I alone. 

Let me forget that in your breast 

One thought of ill 'gainst me you set; 

And well you know as I, 'twere best. 
Could we both live, much to forget. 



FOR THE MOST PART 

I like the paths of busy men, 

The crowded thoroughfare. 
For the most part, though now and then, 

I like to walk elsewhere. 

A narrow path or winding lane 

I love to wander through ; 
Because 'tis then, dear one, again 

I seem to walk with you. 

SOMEBODY MIGHT HAVE CALLED 
ON YOU 

An hour of sunshine I had planned. 
When with the day's task I was thro' ; 

And, if you had but raised your hand. 
Somebody might have called on you. 

I lonesome felt as evening neared. 

And thought you might be lonesome, too ; 

If by one sign I had been cheered. 
Somebody would have called on you. 

134 



I had thought of you thro' the day, 
Thought that were good and pure and true ; 

And, had you only looked my way. 
Somebody must have called on you. 

If, as I wandered up the street, 

Of you I had but caught a view. 
My happiness had been complete. 

For then I would have called on you. 

With timid steps your door I passed ; 

Home, on my couch myself I threw : 
And there you signaled me at last — 

For in my dreams I called on you. 

IF IN THE YESTERDAYS 

If in the yesterdays, now past and gone, 
I was so thoughtless e'er a word to say 

That caused you in your inmost heart to mourn, 
Ah ! let me wipe your tears away today. 

If in past yesterdays I ever gave 

A look unkind that pierced your being thro', 
With stricken heart this much of you I crave, 

That I today the great wrong may undo. 

If in the yesterdays, that will return no more, 
I e'er performed 'gainst you an act unkind, 

Today I crave forgiveness at your door. 

That both of us henceforth have peace of 
mind. 

GROWING APART 

Still in the city they reside. 

And quite near neighbors once were they; 
But now to both one scarce could ride. 

So wide apart they grow each day. 

135 



Nor have both moved, nor even one, 
But, where they long have Hved, abide; 

And yet, as sets each day the sun. 
The distance only grows more wide. 

In sun and rain alike it grows. 
The darkness finds it wider still, 

And all the snow that winter knows, 
The space between them cannot fill. 

They once were more than neighbors, too, 
As one scarred heart at least can show ; 

List while I speak these words to you : 
These two were lovers years ago. 



IN MEMORY 

Tonight the world seems void of cheer, 
Dead leaves are flutt'ring round my door; 

And yet, in memory, I hear 
The songs of birds once more. 

The grass upon the lawn is dead, 
And autumn winds across it blow ; 

And yet, in memory, I tread 
The vale where flowers grow. 

Men hurry past, as if 'twere cold ; 

And clouds of dust before them fly; 
And yet, in memory, I behold 

The meadow brook go by. 

The summer days have vanished quite, 
And, if to grieve, I half incline. 

In memory, dear one, tonight, 
I feel your hand in mine. 



136 



THE ONE WISH OF A WOMAN'S 
HEART 

What is the one wish of a woman's heart, 

So of her Hfe it seems the only part? 

Is it that she may have a face as fair 

As is an angel's, soft luxuriant hair, 

Eyes that the blackness of the night disclose, 

And cheeks that mock the color of the rose? 

Is it that she may such great wealth possess. 
That she in richest silk and lace may dress, 
In gowns that well may admiration claim, 
That critics bow to, while their pens may blame ? 
That soft, white fingers be with jewels crowned, 
And strings of diamonds clasp her neck around, 
Servants to do her every wish and will. 
While fawning fools her ears with flattery fill? 

Is it that she have treasures of the mind. 
Charm with her wit, to learning be inclined ? 
For these we find, although some may disdain. 
Attract an endless concourse in their train. 

Or that she may an empire's scepter sway, 
And nobles to her loyal homage pay. 
While music wakes, and banners fill the sky. 
And subjects kneel as she goes riding by? 
These could not satisfy; although possessed, 
Were she not loved, her life would be unblessed. 
Tho' she of beauty, power and wealth have part. 
Love is the one wish of a woman's heart. 

ERE SHE WAS TWENTY 

I met her at her father's door 

Ere yet she was quite twenty, 
And, of the smiles her features wore, 

She gave a modest plenty. 

137 



She wore a rose like those that bud 

And blossom in fine weather, 
Which poured its richness like a flood 

Upon us there together. 

From tiny feet to shapely head 

She was the soul of neatness ; 
And to her lips, so round and red, 

There was a matchless sweetness. 

You ask me how this much I know; 

Well, ere more words are wasted, 
I will on you the truth bestow,— 

Because of them I tasted. 

And though old Father Time has pressed 

Upon those lips his fingers. 
The sweetness which they then possessed 

Around my life still lingers. 



WHERE ROSES NEVER FADE 

"Know you, O learned friend. 

Where roses can be found 
Whose beauty has no end, 

But blooms the whole year round?'* 

He made me this reply, 

With sorrow on his face: 
"They bloom, then fade and die : 

There is, friend, no such place." 

"Then let me tell you, friend, 

Where roses sweet abound, 
Whose beauty does extend 

The long year's hours around. 

138 



Tis not so far from here^ 
In rain and bright sunshine, 

They bloom through all the year 
On Annie's cheeks divine." 



I WOULD THAT YOU WERE HERE 

Thousands I meet upon the street each day, 
As to my task I press my lonely way, 
But none of all the faces that I see, 
One-half as beautiful as yours to me, — 
I would that you were here! 

Of those I know upon the thoroughfare, 
Some have red cheeks, and others lovely hair, 
Teeth white as snow, and eyes as violets blue. 
But, 'mong them all, there is not one like you, — 
I would that you were here ! 

Once more I would your loving face behold. 
And hear you speak one word, Sweet, as of old ; 
Without your presence life is desolate. 
And this is why, from morn till evening late, 
I wish that you were here. 

TO ST. VALENTINE 

St. Valentine, I understand, 

Tho' you are good at heart. 
You have so very much on hand 

You must neglect a part ; 
But, as last year no valentine 

Did I receive from you, 
I hope this year you will incline 

To send me one — or two. 

I do not think much of the kind 
Made of poetic feet; 

139 



The ones best suited to my mind 
Have lips both red and sweet. 

As last year you forgot me quite, 
In this let us agree, 

If you would make the matter right. 
Just send me two — or three. 

The color of their hair, their eyes. 

If they be brown or blue, 
I leave to you, who are too wise 

An unwise thing to do; 
But let me caution you at least — 

Send them not by a dunce. 
Because my joy might be decreased 

Should they all come at once. 

FORGOTTEN 

Think not of me, but join the merry throng, 
To whom each hour the world new pleasures 
bring. 

Yes, let your voice join in the happy song, 

Nor think of me, whose heart no more can sing. 

Mix, thou, with those whose hearts are gay and 
light. 
E'en when the world is wrapped in slumber 
deep; 
Nor spend on me one passing thought tonight; 
What matters it, if I am sad and weep? 

Go, join the throng of fashion, near or far, 

Where wealth sits on her ever-dazzling throne ; 

Nor let one thought of me your pleasure mar ; 
Think not of me, what if I am alone ? 

Go, listen to the flattering voice of praise, 

Where polished words are spoken for effect; 

Nor turn toward me one thought of other days, 

E'en though I die, because of your neglect. 

140 



If this be fate, let fate her work fulfil ; 

And, though, toward me, your thoughts no 
longer flow, 
'Gainst you, I will not breathe one word of ill. 

For I have loved, and I still love you so. 



BE RECONCILED 

If, thro' the day, a diff'rent view 

Was yours from that of those you met. 
And heated words of anger flew. 

That it seemed hard to quite forget. 
Ere yet the day draws to a close. 

Be you a woman, man or child. 
Before you seek the night's repose — 

Be reconciled! 

If, in the hurry and the haste 

That marks your strife for bread or gain, 
Even one unkind look you placed 

'Twixt you and some one whom 'twill pain. 
Before the sun has wholly set, 

Which thro' the day in heaven has smiled, 
In penitence your act forget — 

Be reconciled ! 

'Tis true alike we cannot see. 

Because we each have diff'rent eyes. 
And so we often disagree, 

And angry thoughts and words arise ; 
But, when the feverish day is o'er, 

And evening comes with whispers mild, 
Let us be angry then no more — 

But reconciled! 



141 



LONGINGLY TOWARD YOU 

All day with hand and brain I've wrought 
But now, at last, my task is thro'. 

And I have time for one sweet thought — 
My heart turns longingly toward you. 

Yes ; I've been busy all the day, 
But, that my duties now are o'er, 

If to my wish I should give way, 
How gladly would I seek your door. 

And look into your face so sweet ; 

And yet, in truth, I have to own 
'Tis better that we should not meet, 

And so tonight I am alone. 

Yes, all alone I sit tonight, 

The past in silence to review, 
And, tho' that brings me some delight. 

My heart turns longingly toward you. 



SING ME A SONG IN THE MORNING 

Come, sing me a song in the morning. 

While the day, like my hope, is new ; 
Whose words will fill me with courage, 

That will thrill me through and through — 
A song with a hopeful measure. 

One heroic and brave and strong, 
With notes that will stir my being — 

That will cheer me all day long. 

If the song for which I am pleading — 
Your dear song, at the dawn, so sweet — 

You sing, I shall go forth to duty 
Light of footstep, but sure and fleet. 

142 



And then, when my tasks are ended, 

And the long day has taken wing, 
At evening a song of triumph 

To you I will come and sing. 

NO ROOM FOR MINE 

Oh, dear ! she wears so many rings 

Upon her shapely hands, 
Which are such very lovely things 

They need no golden bands ; 
It seems to me they only mar 

Their perfect grace and ease. 
Because her hands perfection are 

Without such things as these. 

They have a sparkle bright and new, 

At morning and at night. 
And some, no doubt, their wealth would view 

With wonder and delight ; 
Each diamond flashes with a glow 

Of native worth and art. 
And yet their lustre does not throw 

A halo 'round my heart. 

Of them the wearer seems quite proud. 

And holds them out to view, 
Then 'round them forms a misty cloud 

Mine eyes cannot see through ; 
And so to them, though rich and rare, 

My soul does not incHne, 
Because upon her fingers fair 

There is no room for mine. 

BIRTHDAY VERSES, WITH FLOWERS 

These flowers, by springtime made so fair, 
Products of earth and air and sun, 

I send, to deck your neck and hair. 
The day that you are twenty-one. 

143 



And, when their fragrance, long or brief, 
On wings unseen shall fade and flee, 

Preserve, in love, each falling leaf, 
In memory of the day and me. 

COME AND MAKE UP 

Come and make up, while yet 'tis day; 

The sun speeds onward in his path, 
The morn hath flown, noon's passed away ; 

Let not the day close on your wrath. 

Smile and make up; the moments speed. 
And none has power to stay their flight ; 

O, give the smile — I so much need, 
Ere fall the shadows of the night. 

Speak and make up ; O, let me hear 
One brief word from your lips again, 

That from my heart may pass all fear, 
Ere darkness mantles hill and plain. 



WHATE'ER FOR ME THE YEARS 
UNFOLD 

Whate'er for me the years unfold 

Of tumult or unrest, 
Within my heart the wish I hold 

That yours with peace be blest. 

If in the way my feet must go 

Sharp thorns and briers be found, 

This wish I hasten to bestow — 
May flowers in yours abound. 

Tho' of life's bitter herbs I taste, 

And feel the world's deceit, 
In true sincerity I haste 

To wish you all things sweet. 

144 



If lofty plans and hopes of mine 

The future years undo, 
May fortune's favors so combine 

Success may come to you. 

If poverty must be my part, 
And sorrow with me dwell. 

With all I am of mind and heart, 
I still must wish you well. 



SMOKE-RINGS 

From where he rests, at set of sun. 
Her dwelling- stands not far away ; 

Up through whose chimney smoke-rings run, 
And chase each other in their play. 

And, as on airy wings they rise. 

And toward the sky in blackness roll, 

A feeling he cannot disguise 
Disturbs the quiet of his soul. 

Because the lines his muse awoke, 

And which were penned with so much care, 
He feels are mingling with the smoke 

Ascending on the evening air. • 

How could she to the flames consign 
The words in which his soul found vent. 

Since stored within each measured line 
There was for her a compliment ? 

Had he but practiced less deceit, 

And told her all, instead of part. 
The words, in ashes at her feet 

Perhaps had warmed and won her heart. 



145 



WE SHOULD BE FRIENDS 

We should be friends ; so let not foolish pride 
Come in between, our pathways to divide. 
Life's short at best, and, long as we shall live, 
Each needs the aid the other well may give ; 
We should be friends. 

We should be friends. What if an idle word 
An angry feeling in the heart has stirred? 
On one small word lay not too great a stress, 
But noble be, and this one fact confess — 
We should be friends. 

We should be friends. Then let us now renew 
That friendship that, of old, was warm and true. 
Tho' others change, let us in this agree. 
If long or short our day of life may be. 
We should be friends. 

Let us be friends ! The anguish we have known 
Will, for our error, graciously atone. 
Give me your hand, and, on this sacred night, 
Let us renew our pledge with keen delight — 
We will be friends. 



WITH ADDED INTEREST ON THE 
LOAN 

Today you have been kind indeed ; 

In you I found a good, warm friend ; 
Tomorrow should you be in need 

Some aid to you I may extend. 

Today of one thing I had lack ; 

You freely gave me of your own ; 
Tomorrow I may pay you back. 

With added interest on the loan. 

146 



You gave me sympathy, that's all, 
And yet my need you understood ; 

Tomorrow I on you will call, 
In hopes to make the favor good. 

And when I have grown strong once more, 
And fears and doubts no longer know, 

Need you the same, knock at my door, 
Of all I have I will bestow. 



TRUE FRIENDS 

True friends are scarce ; so, should you find 
One worthy to be classed as such, 

Consider Heaven has been most kind 
To vouchsafe unto you so much. 

I mean a friend whose love for you 
No magnet 'neath the skies can part. 

And leave a cruel world to view 
The anguish of your wounded heart. 

Those friends are rare; how very few. 
That we call friend, deserve the name! 

The friendship such as Damon knew 
Time teaches us but few can claim. 

A friend, the main spoke of whose creed 
Is fealty while you plenty know, 

And shirks you in an hour of need. 
Is more than twenty times a foe. 

We tell of friendship's golden chain — 
A theme a school-girl might essay ; 

But, when life's shadows come, and rain. 
How quick the bright links break away. 

The Pharisees to Judas gave 
A most contemptible reward, 

M7 



Which pleased him so he played the knave 
Not unto man, but to his Lord. 

In words we him no quarter give, 

Nor do we question as to fact ; 
And yet, by the poor lives we live, 

We more than half applaud the act. 

Then, since we are constructed so, 
That best of hearts are set on greed. 

True friends, if sucH we have below. 
Are scarce, — are very scarce indeed. 



NOT ALONE 

To labor hard, to labor long, 
Preparing plans in nice detail, 

To feel that you are brave and strong — 
Then, should you fail, 

Let not your energies abate ; 

Many have met a kindred fate. 

To struggle hard to win a place, 

Claiming the right a place to choose, 

Then hosts of obstacles to face — 
Then, should you lose, 

Remember, you are not alone. 

For thousands the same fate have known. 

To school yourself for any fight. 
And in your plans to be discreet, 

To feel your cause is just and right — 
If comes defeat. 

Remember, few their goal attain 

Who have not heart to rise again. 



148 



HIS HOME 

With heavy steps he sought my side 
And asked a loan to buy some bread; 

Said I, "Sir, where do you reside ?" 
And this is what the old man said : 

"My house is very high and long, 
Yet is not furnished with a door ; 

While the foundation's deep and strong, 
There are no carpets on the floor. 

"To some it looks so quaint and strange, 
For part is new and part is old ; 

But has no furnace and no range 
To keep me warm when, I am cold. 

"From it the sun I ne'er see rise ; 

Within it there is not a bed ; 
In winter when the cold snow flies, 

It falls upon my aged head. 

"Thousands crowd in it all the day, 
As if, like me, they had the right ; 

But go, tho' where I cannot say, 

And leave me when 'tis late at night." 

"Yes, come," said I, "some bread to buy ; 

And I your family will meet." 
"No wife nor child," said he, "have I, 

For here's my home — this city street." 



WHERE IT LEADS 

Upon a road with thorns and briers o'ergrown, 
And rough with many a sharp, protruding stone, 
A traveler one cheerless day I met, 
Whose face and words I never shall forget. 

149 



His streaming locks were wet with dew and rain 
His speech was simple, and his manners plain; 
Faded and old the garments that he wore, 
And bent his form beneath the load he bore. 

His face with many a season's smi was tanned, 
And, with the staff within his trembling hand, 
He journeyed on, o'er rock and brier alone, 
Without a sigh, a murmur or a groan. 

His aged eyes were kindled with a fire 
That told his breast contained but one desire ; 
And as his face in wonderment I scanned. 
He grasped and shook me warmly by the hand. 

"This is a rugged road," said I ; said he. 
With smiles, "It does not seem, sir, so to me, 
For, just beyond its cold and stony gates. 
It leads to where my precious darling waits." 

O, traveler o'er life's hard and rugged road, 
Bent down beneath the burden of your load. 
Take heart, for just beyond its stony gates 
Some idol of your heart, some darling waits. 



FAITHFUL FRIENDS 

Heaven pity him, whate'er his name, 
Or where his wealth begins or ends. 

Who 'mong his treasures, cannot claim 
A little group of faithful friends — 

Friends who, when sorrow's night is near. 
Come with a soft angelic tread 

To drop the sympathetic tear, 

And scatter blessings 'round your head. 

Friends who, when sickness burns the brain, 
Some word of comfort will impart, 

150 



To make less sharp the bhghting pain, 
And cheer the half despondent heart. 

A gift of fruit, a flower, a bud, 

Proffered by hands whose worth we know. 
With peace the anxious mind may flood. 

And many an inward joy bestow. 

How poor the service wealth can buy. 
Experience makes us to confess, 

Compared with that which friends supply, 
Who come to us when in distress. 

Kind heaven, what e'er of loss or gain 
Be mine till life's last hour ends. 

As true as now may they remain — 
My little group of faithful friends. 

TRUE WEALTH 

'Tis a false doctrine, and most grave. 
And yet 'tis taught us every day. 

That men grow rich by what they save. 
And poor by what they give away. 

Yet, to say this I now make bold. 

And hope my words with you may live ; 

Men's wealth is not in what they hold. 
But in what to the world they give. 



THY NEIGHBOR 

Who is thy neighbor ? All who need 
The care and comfort you can give, 

Despite their country or their creed, 
Despite the land in which they live. 

Who is thy neighbor ? They whose eyes 
Are dimmed by sorrow, pain and grief ; 

151 



These claim thy sympatliy ; arise, 
And carry to such souls relief. 

Thy neighbor, he whose bleeding feet 
Need shelter from the winter's cold, — 

Who gives such shoes, or bread to eat, 
Have a reward worth more than gold. 

Who is thy neighbor? She whose way 

With thorns and brambles sharp are fraught ; 

Go! smooth that hard rough road today, 
And both to heaven are nearer brought. 

Thy neighbor, he whose honest name 
The thrusts of scandal deep have slain — 

Fly to him, and, in love, proclaim 

That this world's hate is heavenly gain. 

Who is thy neighbor? All who need 
The care and comfort you can give ; 

Despite their country or their creed — 
Despite the land in which they live. 



BOTH MAY BE WRONG 

You have your views, and think them right, 
And hold them closely to your heart ; 

In mine I take no less delight. 

And yet our views are wide apart. 

That yours are right, you should maintain ; 

And I for mine may argue long; 
Yet we from fighting should refrain, 

Because, perhaps, we both are wrong. 



152 



HOW ABOUT YOU? 

It matters little, dear young man, where your 
grandsires were born, 

Of if your great-greatgrandfather read law or 
planted corn ; 

Nor does it matter much today what your grand- 
mother knew. 

But what the world desires to know is — What 
is there to you ? 

Your father's uncle may, perhaps, have, 'neath 

Napoleon, 
For deeds of valor in the field, enduring honors 

won; 
Some of your mother's ancestors may have 

pierced Caesar through. 
But what the world asks now, young man, is — 

How much can you do? 

Perhaps some of your ancestors, with saber or 

with gun. 
Helped rout the English forces from the plains of 

Lexington ; 
Or else, perchance, at Bunker Hill, their swords 

with valor drew. 
But, what the world today demands, is service 

good from you. 

Your mother's uncle may have been a soldier 
brave and great, 

Have made some great discovery or colonized a 
state ; 

Or, with the thousands that he made, some col- 
lege have endowed ; 

But what, young man, have you e'er done of 
which the world feels proud ? 

There is no harm for you, young man, your line- 
age to trace 

153 



Back to some mighty giant mind, whose deeds 
have blessed the race, 

But, — let me whisper this to you in a soft under- 
tone — 

If you a laurel wreath would wear, weave for 
yourself your own! 

IF WE BUT KNOW 

Of us the world kind things may say, 
Or all its wealth of praise remove. 

To it we small attention pay 

If, what we are, true hearts approve. 

The world may deem us small or great, 
But, whiche'er way the verdict tends, 

The height and depth of our estate 
Chiefly in one begins and ends. 

If we be foolish or be wise, 

We somehow feel it matters not, 

If by but one, with loving eyes, 
A moment we are ne'er forgot. 

The world's high praise is very sweet. 
We court it, I the same as you ; ■ 

And yet our joy is quite complete 
If we but know one heart is true. 

WHAT YOU MUST BE 

If, among those who by you firm have stood, 
And whom it has been your delight to know, 

There is one soul who thinks that you are good, 
That fact alone will help to keep you so. 

If, as each day you patiently pursue 

The various tasks committed to your hands, 
You feel there is one soul that thinks you true. 
That thought your breast with faithfulness ex- 
pands. 

154 



If there be some one who believes you brave^ 
Whatever judgment others may bestow, 

You never can become a willing slave 
To anything that's either mean or low. 

If there be one who thinks that you are strong, 
Though unkind lips may of you lightly speak, 

Twould be most difficult that one to wrong, 
And do an act that proved that you were weak. 

So, if into your life some ill be wrought. 
And partial failure oft your efforts mar. 

Largely in action, and likewise in thought. 

You must be what your true friends think you 
are. 



WHEN YOU RESOLVE 

When you resolve a kindly word to say 

To some sad soul, from whom all hope has fled, 

An angel's wing above your head will play 
Ere half the word be said. 

When you resolve some kindly act to do, 
Tho' it be early morn, or set of sun. 

An unseen power will come to strengthen you, 
And, lo! it is half done. 

When you resolve in the right path to go. 
If it be noon, or rosy dawn of day, 

A hand, unseen by you, your course will show 
And guide you all the way. 

When you resolve you will stand firm and strong. 
Although temptations strive for your defeat. 

To your brave soul a new power will belong 
To make your strength complete. 



155 



ANOTHER DAY 

For me another dawning breaks, 
Another day its door swings wide; 

The opportunity it makes 
With good or evil to abide. 

Another day to live is mine ; 

A time to think, to do, to dare, 
To follow out a brave design. 

Or for some foot to set a snare. 

I wake to see another morn ; 

To choose the path my feet shall press. 
To pluck from out some heart a thorn, 

Or seek for self some small success. 

So whoe'er has another day — 

If it be I, or it be you — 
Also has power to choose the way 

That he will go — what he will do. 



IN A LIBRARY 

This is my inn. 'Tis here I sip 

Rich draughts that mightiest hands have 
poured ; 
And ever when I wet my lip, 

I add new jewels to my hoard. 

This is my inn. 'Tis here I feast 

On richest treasures e'er arrayed ; 
A fitting place to be, at least, 

Because each hour I'm stronger made. 

This is my inn. 'Tis here I rest. 

And, if in sleep my eyes I loose, 
My dreams are ever of the best, 

And I awake with broadened views. 

156 



UPON THE THRESHOLD 

Upon the threshold of today, 

With steps half faltering, I stand ; 

Nor can my eyes discern the way 

The unknown years for me have planned. 

I cannot tell if straight or not 

The path unseen my steps shall find, 

If it shall be with sorrow fraught 
Or, better far, with flowers lined. 

How many rocks it may contain 

To bar my way I can but guess ; 
Nor is it yet to me made plain 

Against what thorns my feet may press. 

If, on my way, perchance I fall, 

Or on some grander level touch, 
Unto the world it may seem small. 

But, ah ! to me it means so much. 

Yet I must venture out and on, 
Tho' I cannot tell foe from friend, 

Until the whole round day be done. 

The way o'er which my steps shall tend. 

But, tho' my ignorance I plead. 

This much at least 'tis mine to know — 

Ere I was born it was decreed 
The very way my steps must go. 

YOU MAY BE WRONG 

You may be wrong. 
If you believe that you are right, 
Then hold to your opinions tight ; 
Let neither flattery nor fear 
Take from you what you hold most dear ; 
And yet, if others should refuse 
To coincide with all your views, 

They have the right. 

157 



You may be wrong. 
No doubt you say, with honest pride 
That you are fully satisfied, 
Though others argue loud and long, 
The views you hold cannot be wrong. 
For you have tested them, and found 
You stand alone on solid ground; 

You may be right. 

You may be right. 
No one will say you should not be 
Grounded in your sincerity. 
Yet men, who vow that they are rights 
Hold views from you the opposite. 
And, since the two cannot agree, 
Perhaps you'd best admit with me. 

You may be wrong. 



THEIR OWN WAY 

How awfully clever some people appear ! 

They salute you with smiles and with words of 
good cheer, 

They hail you as some one quite worthy to meet, 

And that you should visit their homes they en- 
treat. 

This will last just as long — as you'll find out 
some day — 

As you're willing to let them all have their own 
way. 

They own that your family-tree is all right, 
Your mind and ideas exceedingly bright; 
They laud your abilities, genius and skill. 
And tell you how well you some office could fill. 

They praise the good taste you display in your 

dress 
And wish that they, too, might the same gift 

possess ; 

158 



They tell you some day you'll be wealthy, no 

doubt, 
Because for a millionaire you were cut out. 

They like your abode, and they praise all you do, 
And they think that of this life you take the 

right view. 
But some of these people that flatter you so 
In a very short time may a change undergo. 

Sometimes in a second they change their whole 
song ; 

What they thought was all right, they now think 
is all wrong; 

And, though you were goodness and honor be- 
fore. 

Now against you forever will close fast the door. 

This you'll surely discover with sorrow some 
day — 

When you've fi^rmly refused they shall have their 
own way. 

THE WORLD HAS' USED ME PASSING 
WELL 

Come not to me with words so sympathizing. 
Nor at my failure your great sorrow tell ; 

For, deep within me, is a voice uprising. 

Which says the world has used me passing 
well. 

Tho' I have failed to reach as high a station 

As many have, or even to excel. 
Unlike Othello, I've an occupation. 

And, on the whole, the world has used me well. 

Altho' I have been lied about and hated. 

And some have thought they heard my fun'ral 
knell. 
My work misjudged, my labors underrated, 
I live to own kind friends have used me well. 
159 



I have had more than comes to many mortals, 
So my best instincts with emotions swell, 

And tho' thro' wealth's and fame's imposing por- 
tals 
I have not passed, I have been used quite well. 

Then come not, friend, with words of sympathiz- 
ing, 
Nor at my failure your great sorrow tell ; 
For, deep within me, is a voice uprising, 

Which says the world has used me passing 
well. 



WHERE FEW LIVE 

Wherever you journey, by night or by day, 
A number of folks you will meet on the way 
Who hurry along at a feverish pace. 
In order to reach a much sought after place. 

They push and they jostle, the lean and the fat; 
Some think 'tis in this town and some 'tis in that ; 
They travel and journey on, year after year. 
And yet to its borders few ever draw near. 

The guideboards, that point to the place that I 

mean, 
The eye of no mortal hath ever yet seen ; 
So every one journeys along as he may, 
While hundreds and thousands get lost on the 

way. 

In trying to reach it some trip over stones, 

And the air is oft rent with sighs and with 

groans ; 
And yet very few at their side will remain 
Until they their strength and their footing regain. 

160 



You mav wonder what place I have in my mind ; 
This is strange ; 'tis the one you are trying to find. 
Your parents, no doubt, sought its wonders to 

view — 
The place that is only enjoyed by a few. 

Perhaps you may find it, perhaps you may not. 
But the name of the place so anxiously sought, 
And which is e'er reached by so very few feet, 
Is the cool shady side of far-famed Easy street. 



TRAVEL'S RECOMPENSE 

The man who leaves the narrow grooves 
That bound his every day's events, 

And out, into the great world, moves, 
Secures a lasting recompense. 

Cities to see, that hands and wills 
Have reared on a gigantic plan. 

The mind with greater knowledge fills, 
And molds one to a larger man. 

To set one's foot on foreign shores. 
And meet with men of other lands, 

To hear them talk beside their doors. 
One's heart and intellect expands. 

In friendliness the hand to strike 
Of those who dwell in distant parts, 

And find all men are quite alike. 
The pulse to quicker action starts. 

To mix with those of diff'rent views, 

Assimilating what is good. 
Is half our bigotry to lose, 

And helps complete earth's brotherhood. 

IGl 



YOUR TIME IS WORTH FAR MORE 
ELSEWHERE 

If you should meet one in a throng 

Who would your feet with sin ensnare, 

'Twere better you should move along — 
Your time is worth far more elsewhere. 

When passing down the crowded street, 
You see men fighting, hear them swear, 

'Twere best to move with footsteps fleet — 
Your time is worth far more elsewhere. 

Should you o'erhear the gossips talk, 

Laying the faults of others bare, 
'Twere well to hurry down the walk — 

Your time is worth far more elsewhere. 

And so, where'er you chance to be, 

And aught that harms you find is there, 

You surely must agree with me — 

Your time is worth far more elsewhere. 

THE WAY OF THE WORLD 

We laugh and we joke till our mirthfulness 
reaches 
The man who is never too busy to stop, 
When fixing for market his new crop of peaches, 
To place a few choice ones quite near to the 
top. 

We mock him at night, and deride him at dinner, 
And say that the fellow had ought to be hung ; 

We believe him debased, and call him a sinner, 
And every harsh name that is known to the 
tongue. 

We sit like a jury, his practice reviewing, 
And at his poor head our anathemas fling ; 

Yet who among us is not every day doing. 

In some other channel, about the same thing? 
163 



Be thoughtful while now I your answer am bid- 
ing, 
Mark the poor and the rich, the fair and refined, 
And tell me the number of those you find hiding 
The best that they have with the worst from 
mankind. 

No doubt you have thought of this matter quite 
often, 
As you have been quietly looking about, 
And noticed how few hearts with penitence soft- 
en 
While the side that is best they are apt to put 
out. 

The woman whose hair to the silvery is tending. 
Although 'tis a part of Dame Nature's great 
plan, 
A few fleeting moments is often seen spendmg 
To keep the gray threads hid as long as she 
can. 

A man for the woman he loves to adoring. 

Dresses up in his best suit of tailor-made black, 

But when he has won her he's often found snor- 
ing 
In an old pair of overalls pieced in the back. 

The sleek politician would pass for perfection 
As he tells you of laws that ought to be framed, 

But when he at last has secured his election, 
By the opposite side too oft he is claimed. 

The merchant, the sale of his wares to make 
faster 
The best that he has in his windows will show, 
The fence with advertisements thickly will plas- 

Which tell he is selling for cost, and below. 
163 



The shoemaker, wishing to please his fair neigh- 
bor, 
Will praise her small feet and the sizes mark 
down ; 
In this way he gets a good price for his labor, 
And wins the respect of all ladies in town. 

The newspaper editor oft is found telling 

About the good things that will shortly appear ; 

The best door is always in front of the dwelling, 
The swill-tub is always kept well in the rear. 

Since mankind at large, in some way or other, 
Are doing the same as the man with the fruit, 

Against this offence of our ambitious brother 
Perhaps we had best keep a little more mute. 



STILL FASHIONABLE 

No matter how the fashions change for women 

or for men, 
One style there is the same today as it has always 

been; 
This year dame fashion may decree a dress must 

be made loose, 
And next year, that it shall be tight, finds for it 

an excuse ; 
This season's fashion plates may show a curve 

must mark the hat ; 
And, in three months, for reasons good, the same 

must be made flat ; 
And yet whatever quirks or frills fashion for us 

may choose. 
It is considered stylish yet for folks to go in twos. 

A carriage that must now be high, next season 

must be low. 
So oft from one absurd extreme we to the other 

go; 

164 



It may be quite the thing today to paint a dwell- 
ing white, 

While next year nothing short of brown would be 
considered right ; 

This year the rich must go on foot, next year 
must drive or ride; 

This season we may all play whist, next year 
our cards must hide. 

And yet tho' fashion claims the right to weekly 
change her views, 

I notice people still insist in traveling in twos. 

A game that's fashionable now, and pleases every 

one, 
Before another week shall end perhaps has had 

its run ; 
This year, beside the deep blue sea, we view the 

fisher's net, 
Next year we go as far away from it as we can 

get. 
And, tho' I am a sober man, it often makes me 

smile. 
That' mong the changes fashion makes folks stick 

to one oJd style ; 
T mean the one old Adam set, ere he did Eden 

lose, 
When he and Eve went hand in hand and they 

walked forth in twos. 

THE OBSCURE MAN'S CONSOLATION 

Of me the great world ne'er has heard, 
Yet I in this am somewhat blessed. 

My lowly state has never stirred 
Envy in any human breast. 

And if I do not feel inclined 

To strive some mighty part to play, 

In this I consolation find, 
I stand not in another's way. 
165 



If I ne'er seek wealth's lofty height, 
One thing- at least I feel and know : 

Rivals do not scheme day and night 
To bring about my overthrow. 

And if I am of lowly birth, 

And a retiring life have led, 
I doubt if there is on the earth 

One soul that wishes I was dead. 

To make this great earth theirs alone, 
Men have their days in scheming passed, 

But we the stubborn fact must own — 
Old mother earth gets all at last. 



HOW MUCH IT MEANS TO BE A MAN 

How much it means to be a man, 

In hand and heart complete. 
Made up upon the broadest plan 

From crown of head to feet. 

To be a man, secure and strong, 

With what is best in touch ; 
To be too brave to act a wrong ; 

Ah, this indeed means much ! 

It means how much a man can be 

When not for self he lives, 
But, working out his destiny, 

Himself for others gives. 

To be a man, with powers trained, 
With passions 'neath control; 

Life's loftiest heights are surely gained 
By such a mighty soul. 

166 



To be o'er pride and self supreme, 
For earth some good to plan — 

While others for this wait and dream — 
Be thou at once that man ! 



THINGS WE ARE GOING TO DO 

Whate'er we have done in the days that have 
passed, 

Toward making a fortune or name. 
If for years they endure, or but for a day last, 

For them we but small merit claim ; 
But, of the great things we have cherished and 
planned. 

We take a far different view — 
The things we feel sure will eternally stand — 

The things we are going to do. 

Though a work we have done that merits some 
praise. 

Work we did amid sunshine and storm, 
We longingly turn our attention and gaze 

To the deeds we intend to perform ; 
For, although some things we have done in days 
past, 

That with pleasure we proudly review. 
Still our anchor of hope we continue to cast 

Round the things we are going to do. 

Have we built a great town, or a house, or a 
rhyme. 

That people can praise or admire, 
Still we anxiously look far ahead to the time 

When we shall build better and higher ; 
And yet if for riches, or honor, or sport. 

This phantom we ever pursue. 
We find, at life's end, we have fallen far short 

Of the things we intended to do. 

167 



IN BLACK 

Spring, in her garden, walks with pure delight 
And beautifies with flowers that naught of 
brightness lack ; 
But she, whose eyes look on them, morning, noon 
and night, 
Is dressed in sombre black. 

Amid her many trees, with opening buds o'er- 
hung. 
The joyous song-birds wind a sweet, melodious 
track. 
But her heart's lyre, once musical, remains un- 
strung, 
And she is clothed in black. 

It may be that, some time, the bright incoming 
years 
Will, to her spirit sad, bring its warm sunshine 
back, 
When she will wipe away the remnant of her 
tears, 
And put aside her black. 

If not, no doubt at last beyond time's rolling tide. 
Where there are no more tears, and hearts are 
always light, 

Her garments dyed in black will all be laid aside, 
And she wear spotless white. 

A BRIGHT FRIEND 

Some say this world of ours is cold ; 

'Tis not so, I contend, 
At least I find, though somewhat old, 

I still have one warm friend. 

When I sit down to read at night, 
After a day of toil, 

168 



I find my friend both warm and bright, 
And sHck and smooth as oil. 

The drifting snow outside I hear, 

The winds in anger blow, 
Yet why need I the cold storm fear ? 

My friend is all aglow. 

The fuel on the open hearth 

May be as black as night, 
And yet of warmth there is no dearth, 

My friend floods me with light. 

The radiators may be cold, 

The cookstove chilly, too. 
And yet my friend will e'er make bold 

To still be warm and true. 

Without this friend, whom I admire, 
The world to me were cold ; 

But, as things are, 'tis my desire 
A different view to hold. 

So come what will of wind or storm. 
Let nights be raw and damp, 

I have one friend, tried, true and warm, 
In m.y big evening lamp. 



NOT INTRODUCED 

At summons of the self same bell, 

Whose notes they had heard o'er and o'er, 
And which they loved extremely well. 

They passed within the same church door. 

They struggled hard their minds to free 
From earth and all its various cares ; 

Alike they humbly bent the knee 

And joined aloud in the same prayers. 

169 



The joy that it is theirs to know 

Who have a faith secure and strong, 

Made their warm hearts to overflow 
As they joined in the self -same song. 

Their wilHng alms each Sabbath day 
Were side by side devoutly laid, 

And went forth on their righteous way, 
Earth's poor and needy ones to aid. 

And though each week, from lips most wise. 
Alike they the same teachings heard, 

Great as, perchance, is your surprise, 
They ne'er exchanged a single word. 

Truth in each heart great joy awoke. 
While error made their spirits sad ; 

Yet, to each other they ne'er spoke; 
No introduction having had. 

I wonder, if it be our lot 

To gain that higher life of bliss, 

Formalities will be forgot 

That mar much of the joy of this. 

I wonder if, beyond the skies, 

Being in .robes immortal clad. 
We others ever recognize 

Who have no introduction had. 

For, if they do, I freely hold. 

Though some may think it rather queer. 
That members of one flock and fold 

Might recognize each other here. 



170 



HELP US LAUGH 

Ye bards, who have the power to weave 
Such magic round us by your rhymes, 

Seek not always to make us grieve, 
But help us laugh sometimes. 

To ope the fountain of our tears 
We do not need your magic touch. 

For now, among our greater fears, 
Is that we weep too much. 

You, who can sing in any key 
That human hearts have ever set, 

Shout out a song of melody 
To help us grief forget. 

You know that there is too much gloom. 
So push it, by your songs, aside, 

And thus prepare a larger room 
For sunshine to abide. 

Since many of us are aware 
That life too sober is by half. 

Our fears and troubles from us scare 
And try to help us laugh. 



MY RIVAL 

I meet him almost every day, 

As I to business go, 
Within his buggy or his sleigh, 

And we each other know ; 
And if the day be dry or wet, 

And mud the ways defile, 
My rival I have ne'er seen yet 

Without his winning smile. 

Whatever he may leave behind. 
His watch or finger ring, 

171 



There is one thing I call to mind 

He ne'er forgets to bring; 
No matter if the winter's snow 

The roads with big drifts pile, 
Or if the winds terrific blow — 

He ne'er forgets his smile. 

Others I meet with downcast eyes, 

And faces void of cheer ; 
Their look your morning hopes would blast 

And fill your heart with fear. 
But, ah ! my rival is too wise 

.To do a thing so vile, 
So, when we meet, his very eyes 

Are radiant with a smile. 

Though I admire sweet cheerfulness, 

I often think, if he 
Did not such winning ways possess, 

I would more prosperous be ; 
Think not it is our wish or plan 

To win the same fair maid. 
For he — the smiling little man — 

My rival is, in trade. 



TOMORROW ALL MAY BE REVERSED 

Because the sky looks black and drear. 
And not a star shines forth tonight. 

It does not as a fact appear 

Tomorrow's sun may not be bright. 

Because tonight you have some doubt 
That brings to you a sorrow, yet 

It does not prove hope's lamp is out. 
Nor that its joyous star is set. 

If you tonight a little grieve, 

Because you failed some prize to clasp, 

172 



Tomorrow in yourself believe, 

And you the envied prize may grasp. 

If friends today you tliong'ht were true 
Have caused you grief by their deceit, 

It follows not tomorrow you 

A friend most worthy may not meet. 

So, if whate'er the day has brought 
Has seemed to be but of the worst, 

Tonight find comfort in the thought 
Tomorrow all may be reversed. 

THE OLD SPECKLED HEN 

John Highlow lived not fifty miles from here, 
Was large of heart and in his faith sincere, 
He was a farmer very well to do. 
And had a wife devoted, kind and true. 
But yet one sin life's devious ways beset. 
She was inclined to worry and to fret, 
'Bout this or that, servants or hired men, 
But just now 'bout a poor old speckled hen. 

The rounding year had on their efforts smiled. 
The great barn loft with sweetest hay was piled. 
The yellow pumpkins 'neath September's skies 
Had grown to more than their accustomed size. 
The honey bees had bounteous sweets distilled, 
And ripening apples all the orchard filled. 
But in her heart there was no joyous song; 
The hen with many speckles had gone wrong. 

The various crops in garden and in field 

Had given forth a more than generous yield. 

The sheep and cattle both had multiplied, 

And in the house and barn were laid aside 

A good supply of all they made or grew 

To meet their wants the coming winter through. 

173 



Yet she could find no comfort night or day. 
The speckled hen had laid her eggs away. 

And so one day when to her house there came 

An aged friend, we will not call by name, 

And frankly asked how they were prospering 

now, 
Poor Mrs. Highlow knit her anxious brow. 
And bowing down her discontented head, 
Forgetting all the blessings round her spread, 
Declared that she was awfully distressed, 
The speckled hen had gone and hid her nest. 

And so it is too many souls possess 
The same great weakness that caused her distress. 
The little ills that life's pathway beset 
We magnify, and o'er them fume and fret. 
With eyes downcast and half despondent tread, 
We overlook the blessings round us spread. 
'Tis true alike of women and of men. 
And every life has its old speckled hen. 



IF YOiU BUT WILL IT SO 

You can be something if you will, 
The years to you the way will show. 

In life some station you may fill 
But you must will it so. 

Your rise may not be quite as fast 
As hasty folks might wish to go. 

But you can reach the height at last 
If you but will it so. 

'Tis useless to sit idly down ; 

Into your work your whole self throw, 
Success at last your hopes will crown 

If you but will it so. 

174 



NOT WITH FOLDED HANDS 

He, who would win in life's great race, 

And bear a victor's part, 
Must start with a determined pace, 

A^d courage in his heart. 
'Tis perseverance, nothing less. 

That victory commands. 
While he the prize will ne'er possess 

Who sits with folded hands. 

He, who would win in life's great fight, 

And wear the victor's crown, 
Must throw into his task his might, 

And ne'er sit idly down ; 
With care and skill his weapons choose, 

Whose use man's strength expands ; 
While he is sure the prize to lose 

Who sits with folded hands. 

THE EMPTY PEW 
A Tribute to the Late Judge James R. Newhall 

Across the aisle from me a pew 

In church is now unoccupied, 
Because a man, whose worth all knew, 

Has passed out on life's highest tide. 

'Mid winter's snows and summer's heat, 
Through many years he sought the way. 

With joy, to his^ accustomed seat. 
To join in song, to kneel and pray. 

Though rich in knowledge of his own, 
Taken from learning's deepest mine. 

No better listener e'er was known. 

When preachers spoke of things divme. 

He blew no trumpet to proclaim 

The goodness with which he was blest, 

175 



But led a life devoid of blame, 

And trusted heaven for all the rest. 

Strong in the faith that he was right — 
A churchman true through lengthened days 

He would not say heaven shed no light 
On other men in different ways. 

His kindly spirit fanned no flame 
To burn a brother's cherished creed, 

Though of a widely different name, 
If it supplied that brother's need. 

He would not wish that we rehearse 

His charities, not e'en in part; 
Yet we must own that with his purse 

He gave the fullness of his heart. 

Long will his many virtues shine, 
A beacon light for each and all ; 

The Church will 'round his memory twine 
A wreath whose leaves shall never fall. 



IF YOU SHOULD CHANCE TO PASS 
MY WAY 

If, as you journey onward day by day, 
You by the world are pushed and tossed about. 

Drop in, if you should chance to pass my way. 
For you the latch-string still is hanging out. 

If, as you look into your heart, you find 
A grief you have no power to remove. 

Drop in, when passing, if you feel inclined. 
We may a blessing to each other prove. 

If you, perchance, should happen to recall 

The days now passed when life seemed full and 
sweet, 

176 



And you are passing, do not fear to call — 
It might be well for us again to meet. 

If you should find that new friends are less true 
Than some you had in happy days of yore, 

Drop in ; forgiveness will I have for you, 
And your forgiveness, too, will I implore. 

THE REAL FRIEND 

I cannot deem him quite a friend, 
Whate'er his title, age or name, 

Who flatteringly would extend 
The praise I cannot justly claim. 

Nor yet a friend in him I find, 

Whate'er his wealth or race or state. 

Who, somehow, always is inclined 
My work to underestimate. 

But, better far than both of these. 
My friend is he, both day and night, 

Who, if his judgments hurt or please, 
Wants but to judge of me aright. 

NOT IN VAIN 

Who plants a tree, that sun and rain 

May shape it to enrich the mind. 
Most surely has not lived in vain. 

But done a service to mankind. 

Who plants a flower where grew a weed. 
Through summer's sun and autumn's blast. 

Has taught mankind the blessed creed — 
All ill must yield to good at last. 

Who sings a song that mortals need. 

To make their wayward wand'rings less, 

177 



Has lent his powers to do a deed 
That angels will rejoice to bless. 

Who breathes a prayer that helps some heart 

Its chain of sin to well undo, 
Has surely played in life a part 

He never will have cause to rue. 

Who digs a well where trav'lers' feet 

May pause and rest, while lips drink deep, 

Has wrought for man a service sweet, 
Of which the angels record keep. 

And who, from love within, is led 
To lighten some soul's grief or pain, 

Has with the bread of heaven been fed, 
And so he has not lived in vain. 



THE TOWN OF DESPAIR 

If you start on a journey for pleasure or rest, 
And map out your course, whether east, south or 

west, 
You will pass many towns, many cities as well, 
Where you'll think it a pleasure for mortals to 

dwell ; 
Because, in them joy and contentment abide, 
And you'll find it quite safe for you through 

them to ride. 
But of one place I warn you, of which, oh, be- 
ware! 
And that is the horrible town of Despair. 

Most cities and towns have their tall, stately 

trees, 
And over their tops birds sing songs in the 

breeze ; 
While high above these the tall church steeples 

rise, 

178 



Their bright shining spires pointing up to the 

skies. 
All places like these it is safe to pass thro', 
For they are extremely delightful to view; 
But, howe'er you journey, I warn you, take care 
To shun, at all hazards, the town of Despair. 

In most of the towns that you pass thro' at night, 
The lights in the houses shine out clear and 

bright ; 
The sound of sweet music will fall on your ear, 
The people who greet you contented appear. 
The perfume of flowers will follow your way. 
And the children you see will be glad in their 

play ; 
But none of these charms will you find anywhere 
In the horrible, horrible town of Despair. 

From the town of Despair no mountains are seen 
With stream-watered vales resting calmly be- 
tween. 
No lovers e'er walk thro' its groves hand in hand, 
While their cheeks with the glow of the morning 

are fanned. 
And, in that strange town with the horrible 

name. 
The daytime and nighttime are one and the 

same; 
No evening is joyous, no morning is fair, 
In the horrible, horrible town of Despair. 

THE TOWN OF CONTENT 

O' how few of the thousands who travel by rail, 
Or are borne o'er the seas by the strength of the 

gale. 
And how few of the millions who on walking 

are bent 
Ever safely arrived at the Town of Content. 

179 



Not a man who has wealth, and is craving for 

more, 
Has e'er passed one short day at its beautiful 

door; 
Who has little acquired, not content with his 

share, 
Since the days of old Adam, has ever stopped 

there. 

Not a man whose poor soul with ambition is filled 
Has the town on his head its sweet odors dis- 
tilled; 
Not a soul who has fame, and not satisfied quite, 
In the Town of Content has e'er slept over night. 

Many journey o'er deserts and valleys for years, 

Through the various countries of both hemis- 
pheres, 

But, alas! when both money and strength have 
been spent 

They find they are far from the Town of Content. 

Far beyond the tall Alps with their cold caps of 

snow, 
And in lands where warm zephyrs unceasingly 

blow. 
For the road through its gates men have looked 

up and down, 
And have died just in sight of the spires of the 

town. 

So to you, who are seeking the town, let me say, 
Through its long-looked- for streets you may not 

tread today ; 
If you ever should find it, nearby or afar. 
You will find it is located — just where you are. 



ISO 



EARTH'S TRUE WORKINGMEN 

Hurrah, for labor's loyal sons! Hurrah, for 

those who toil ! — 
Who search the rolling planets out, or cultivate 

the soil ; 
For those who dig ore from the mines, and those 

who drop the seed ; 
For all who labor day or night, are working men 

indeed. 

Hurrah, for those who love to work ! It is by toil 

alone 
Long lines of railroads have been built and cities 

great have grown ; 
The man who will no labor do, but seeks his part 

to shirk. 
Denies the great eternal truth, that all success 

means work. 

And so, for every one who toils, if he be weak or 
strong. 

Give forth a shout of triumph, and sing a cheer- 
ing song; 

Hurrah, for those who count the stars and those 
who hold the plow, 

For every one who does his part stamps honor on 
his brow. 

Hurrah, for those who drag the trees down from 

the mountain's side. 
And those who in the counting room with labor 

are supplied; 
Whoever works, and does it well, is moulded on 

a plan 
That stamps him, be he rich or poor, a real true 

workingman. 



181 



So, to the toiling millions, our hats today we raise, 
For all who work as best they can are worthy of 

our praise; 
Hurrah for mankind ! — everywhere — who toil 

with pick or pen. 
For those who serve the world the best are earth's 

true workingmen. 

NOT TRUE 

Have heard it said so many times I quite believed 

it true, 
A woman of Chicago birth wears a tremendous 

shoe; 
And, though I do not wish to say the ones that 

said so lied. 
The statement, from what I have seen, needs to 

be qualified. 

The maid that served my morning meal was in 
Chicago born, 

Her neck was white as drifting snow, her cheeks 
fresh as the morn ; 

Her hair was beautiful indeed, her eyes a heaven- 
ly blue. 

And, if I am a judge of size, her shoe was num- 
ber two. 

The chambermaid who makes my bed, on which 

I sleep and dream, 
A sculptor's model well might serve, or form a 

poet's theme; 
And, as I passed her on the stair, she gave a 

glance at me, — 
Then I in modesty looked down, and found she 

wore a three. 

The maid, who the piano played the other night, 
till ten, 

182 



Had feet that well might win the praise of even 

eastern men ; 
For, as upon the pedals bright we saw them rise 

and fall, 
We marked them with a critic's eye, and vowed 

that they were small. 

The one who sent the telegram for me from the 

hotel, 
Looked sweet as any violet that blooms in field or 

dell ; 
And, though perhaps her shapely form was just 

a little tall. 
Her feet would make an empress frown, or credit 

do a doll. 

So, though perhaps this theme may not so many 

folks delight, 
To so abuse Chicago girls is not exactly right; 
And, though I do not wish to say men who have 

done so, lied, 
The statement, from what I have seen, needs to 

be qualified. 

THE RICH 

I count him lich whose wealth consists 
In helping those who need his care; 

Who scatters from some eye the mists 

That birth and teaching have placed there. 

I count him rich who gives his purse 
To build a home to shield the head 

Of those on whom there seems a curse, 
When they no more can earn their bread. 

I count him rich who lives so well 

That others, seeing him upright, 
Though they in goodness ne'er excel. 

Nor quite forsake the path of right. 

183 



I count her rich who, standing firm, 
Assists some sister fallen low. 

And plants within her heart a germ 
That shall to deeds most noble grow. 

And she is rich who, round her home, 

Uprears a moral paradise. 
From which her children never roam 

Into the ways of sin and vice. 

I count her rich who from some heart 
Plucks a sharp thorn long buried there ; 

For heaven to such will joy impart 
That naught on earth can e'er impair. 

I count him rich who shares his crust 

With beggars, should they need it most; 
In this is wealth, that time nor rust 

To tarnish, e'er can make their boast. 



A BATTLE 

Today will be fought a great battle ; 

And when it will end is unknown ; 
But' twill last until one of two forces 

Be routed or quite overthrown. 

About it the world cares but little — 
No thundering cannon will roll; 

Yet, on the result of the conflict. 
There hinges the fate of a soul. 

This is not a conflict of nations, 

Uprising the world to unrest; 
Nor contest that's waged between persons, 

But forces that rage in my breast. 

The powers are now in full action — 
The forces of goodness and sin, 

184 



And I cannot tell till it's over, 
Which side will the victory win. 

About it the world cares but little — 
No thundering cannon will roll; 

Yet, on the result of the struggle 
There hinges the fate of my soul. 



QUICK AND SLOW 

Be quick to do a kindly deed 

To some one in distress; 
Some hungry orphan child to feed, 

Who will your service bless ; 
But, if you think to do a wrong 

To any one you know, 
Tho' they be either weak or strong, 

Then be not quick — but slow. 

Be quick to speak a cheering word, 

Whatever else you do. 
In order that some heart be stirred 

The right course to pursue ; 
But, if you think a word unkind 

On some one to bestow. 
Before you quite make up your mind, 

Be not too quick — but slow. 

Be quick the door to open wide 

That enters to your heart. 
That noble thoughts with you may 'bide 

And nevermore depart; 
But, if you think to ope the door 

To things debased and low, 
'Twere best to think the matter o'er, 

And not be quick — but slow. 



185 



WITH GLASSES ON THEIR EYES 

O dear, how much the girls have changed — the 

ones I used to know ! 
Pauline, who was so fleet of foot, now walks so 

very slow; 
While Catherine and Josephine stare at me with 

surprise. 
Whene'er I meet them on the street with glasses 

on their eyes. 

Belinda Grey, who was so fair, and walked with 
so much grace, 

Instead of roses on her cheeks, has deep lines in 
her face; 

And tho' Belinda, with a pout, the hand of time 
defies. 

Whene'er she means to read or write, puts glass- 
es on her eyes. 

Amanda Wood, whose roguish eyes the boys 

would all amuse. 
Instead of wearing long, slim boots, now dons 

wide, easy shoes ; 
And, tho' Amanda's wealth of hair to curl still 

nobly tries, 
How she has changed, since now she wears those 

glasses on her eyes ! 

The Merritt girl, whose eyes were bright as are 

the stars at night, 
Who used to make my young heart beat with 

pain — and then delight. 
Whene'er we met, if it were fair, or leaden were 

the skies, 
She seemed to look so cold and strange — with 

glasses on her eyes. 



186 



But, as the weeks and years go by, changes to 

all must come; 
And lips that once were warm with life, today 

are cold and dumb. 
But it is sweet to know that still we've hearts to 

highly prize, 
The few who still are left to us with glasses on 

their eyes. 



THE SPENDTHRIFT 

Why should I scheme and scrimp and save? 

I'll spend my dollars as I please. 
I do not care to drudge and slave 

That some one else may take his ease. 

I've no desire to delve and toil, 
Till time with me at last shall end. 

In mart or shop, on sea or soil. 

That those who follow me may spend. 

I would not mar my life's brief round 

With sighs and tears, with fears and cares; 

Let me, instead, with those be found 
Who well enjoy whatever 's theirs. 

I crave no stone, sky-crowned, to mark 
The spot where I at last must sleep ; 

It would not make my grave less dark — 
O'er me unasked the flowers will creep. 

Ne'er have it said of me, when dead, 
"The gold he left a vault would fill;" 

Of me I crave that this be said : 

'There'll be no contest o'er his will !" 



187 



THEY CANNOT ROB US OF THE 
PAST 

Though cruel hands may strive to blight 
The fruit we hoped the years would bring, 

They never can destroy outright 

The sweets that 'round the blossoms cling. 

If lips shall strive by unkind words 

To make our future incomplete, 
They have not power to kill the birds 

That in our hearts have sung so sweet. 

Though unkind feet may turn aside 
Within our path sharp thorns to lay, 

They lack the power from us to hide 
The flowers we gathered by the way. 

If faces, shadowed o'er with hate. 
To flood our course with fear have planned, 

They cannot close the happy gate 

Through which we have passed, hand in hand 

Though strength of foes may hope to build 
High walls to part our future ways, 

They cannot fence the bliss that filled 
Our souls through many yesterdays. 

If cruel hands attempt to blight 

The fruit we hoped the years would bring. 
They never can destroy outright 

The sweets that 'round the blossoms cling. 

So though they may our way pursue 
And seek our highest hopes to blast. 

One thing they have not power to do, — 
They cannot rob us of the past. 



188 



TO A POET 

Too much of heaven makes up thy rhyme, 
Too many angels with bright wings, 

Too much of some far future time. 
And not enough of worldly things. 

You dwell so on the future state, 

Depicting everlasting bliss, 
There is no space left to relate 

The duties which belong to this. 

It is not well to blind our eyes, 
And ne'er into the future peer; 

And yet, our first great duty lies 
In things pertaining to this sphere. 

To teach that, when this mortal dies, 

Above we shall be freely fed, 
Feeds not the body when it cries 

And fights and battles after bread. 

To sing that in that bless'd abode 

Each head shall wear a golden crown. 

Lifts not the burden of that load 

Which weighs the starving millions down. 

You chant that, on that blissful shore 
Our tears shall all be wiped away ; 

Yet we behold a torrent pour 

Adown the mourner's cheek each day. 

It is not well to blind our eyes. 

And ne'er into the future peer ; 
And yet our first great duty lies. 

In things pertaining to this sphere. 

Rise, poet, with a heart and mind 

With brighter aspirations rife ; 
Retune thy harp, and teach mankind 

First how to rightly live this life. 

189 



IF BUT THE HEART BE RIGHT 

Why should we crave to know a man's belief, 
Or thro' what window he receives his light? 

No act of his need cause another grief, 
If he, at heart, be only in the right. 

Why need we question him about his creed ? 

He from the path of right will not depart, 
Nor will he pass a brother by in need, 

Providing he is only right at heart. 

What if he stands, or on his knees shall fall, 
When he shall pray, at morning or at night? 

What matter if he does not pray at all? 

There were no need, if but his heart be right. 

What if the church-door he ne'er enters in — 
Of this great world a church is only part, 

And, in a man, there can be little sin 
If he be only wholly right at heart. 



WE CHARGE IT UP TO FATE 

We know the way our feet should go, 
For we the guide-boards oft have read, 

And yet our footprints often show 
We tread another path instead. 

We know the sure, safe road is straight, 
And yet we oft have a desire 

To enter some forbidden gate. 

Where end our footsteps in the mire. 

And when the mire becomes too deep. 

If it be early or yet late. 
Childlike, we then begin to weep. 

And straightway charge it up to fate. 

190 



OUT OF THE WAY 

"Get out of my way !" said the woodchuck black, 
To the tiny bug just crossing his track: 
"You are so Httle, I've just time to say, 
I'm in a hurry. Get out of my way!" 

"Get out of my way!" the mighty bear said, 
As he rolled his great eyes and shook his head 
At the little cub in his path that lay, 
"I'm in a hurry. Get out of my way !" 

"Get out of my way !" the elephant spoke, 
As he leered at the ox bearing his yoke : 
"I am much bigger than you, any day ; 
I'm in a hurry. Get out of my way !" 

"Get out of my way!" said the big schoolboy 
To the smaller one, with his penny toy ; 
"With you, little fellow, I cannot play; 
I'm in a hurry. Get out of my way !" 

"Get out of my way!" said the big strong man, 
To the boy made up on a puny plan ; 
"I've money to earn and a part to play ; 
I'm in a hurry. Get out of my way !" 

"Get out of my way !" said the man of wealth 
To the one who had neither cash nor health ; 
"Perhaps you are worthy; but sir, today 
I'm in a hurry. Get out of my way!" 

"Get out of my way !" said the millionaire, 
"For those poorer than I why should I care ? 
The weak I jostle — the feeble slay ; 
I'm in a hurry. Get out of my way !" 

So says this great world, to one and to all, 
"Get out of my way, because you are small !" 
And woe to the weak who do not obey 
When the strong cry out, "Get out of my way !" 

191 



THE MAN AND THE POET 

A man, these snowy, wintry days, 
Up to the hills directs his gaze ; 
He sees the snowdrifts and the ice 
Holding them there as in a vise. 
He does not pause to look below, 
His thoughts no deeper channels know ; 
And this, tho' argue as you please, 
Is all the common mortal sees. 

The poet looks 'neath ice and snow ; 
His thoughts to deeper stratas go ; 
Tho' he be old, his heart is young, 
For flowers he sees the grass among. 
From snow-bound hills he hears the rill, 
While birds with songs the heavens fill ; 
Heart tuned with nature's so complete. 
His pulses feel the spring time's beat. 

OUR WORLD 

This world so very far extends. 
Some say that it is vast and great ; 

And yet our world begins and ends 
Not far beyond our garden gate. 

Some say this world has wealth untold, 
Enough, and more, for all who need; 

Yet, let a friend his hand withhold, 
And our small world is poor indeed. 

Some say this world is filled with light, 

And sun and warmth our lives to cheer; 

And yet a frown our world will blight 
And render it both dark and drear. 

Earth's millions we oft speak about, 
That dwell from farthest east to west ; 

But take — say one or two souls out. 
And what to us are all the rest? 
192 



ON YOUR WAY HOME 

On your way home, if you should overtake 
Some one whose load is crushing him to earth, 

And, of his burden, part your own you make, 
The stars at night will sing to heaven your 
worth. 

On your way home, if you should chance to meet 
Some one whose grief is more than he can 
bear. 

Your rest at night will be both sound and sweet, 
If in his ears you pour a hopeful prayer. 

If, on your way to that home we are taught 
Rests somewhere far beyond time's feverish 
tide, 

Life you have given to lofty deed and thought, 
Its doors will at your coming open wide. 



NOT ON THE MAP 

What map of the world ever drafted by man, 
It has been your good fortune to thoughtfully 

scan. 
With the sight you possessed could you dimly 

discern 
E'en the bounds of that country for which we all 

yearn ? 

You may put on your glasses to strengthen your 

sight, 
And search all day long, and far into the night, 
But I doubt if you ever can truly locate 
That country, so longed for by little and great. 

All over the earth, men have sought it afar, 
Over mountains and plains, and Where low val- 
leys are; 

193 



Over seas they have sailed, even anchor have 

cast, 
But over its boundaries none ever have passed. 

Its borders to cross men have offered their gold, 
But their chariot wheels thro' its gates never 

rolled ; 
And no map was e'er drawn that could serve as 

a guide 
To that realm where each wish of the heart's 

gratified. 



BEYQND THE PEACEFUL STARS 

There is no day, however bright, 

But what some cloud its brightness mars, 
But there's a world of fadeless light, 

Beyond the peaceful stars. 

There is no song, however sweet, 
But some false note its concord jars; 

But harmony is there complete, 
Beyond the peaceful stars. 

Here is no life, as time has proved, 
On which sin hath not left its scars ; 

All signs of wounds will be removed, 
Beyond the peaceful stars. 

Here none can love with perfect love. 
Something from this the soul debars ; 

But this will not be so above — 
Beyond the peaceful stars. 



194 



THE OTHER ONE 

When a man in the place that he sought for is 
seated 
And the banner he bore to the masthead is 
nailed, 
When the things he has done are cheered and 
repeated. 
Who thinks of the fellow who battled but 
failed? 

When a man who has struggled and fought and 
endeavored, 
And the line of success in triumph has crossed, 
When the last link that bound him to want has 
been severed 
Who thinks of the fellow who struggled but 
lost? 

When a boy bounds ahead, in whom we discover 
Those well-balanced powers that always must 
win, 
Who thinks of the lost one who nursed from his 
mother 
When a child at her breast all the currents of 
sin? 



SUCCESS 

Think not to girdle great success 
Within the span of one short year ; 

The hopes of life were rendered less, 
Did it not cost us thrice more dear. 

'Tis won alone by ceaseless toil 

Of head and heart, of hands and feet 

In hours of calm, mid great turmoil. 
At home, abroad, in mart and street. 

195 



This lends our fragile bodies strength, 
Rounds out the sinews of the brain 

To such majestic girt and length, 
That oppositions swell our gain. 

Some have its lower juttings gained, 
Who fraternized, at times, with ease ; 

But who its highest peaks attained. 
Had aching heads and chafed knees. 

Many aspire to something great. 
But having little strength of will. 

Soon fall behind — how sad to state — 
Because the course is part up hill. 

Victories achieved without a blow 
Had served us less if nobly lost. 

Since all we have, or are, or know, 
Is valued chiefly for their cost. 

Success means not — nay, seeker, hold ! — 
Great millions to bequeath to heirs. 

But every hour we live to mould 
The world anew, by love and prayers. 

Should e'er you make it yours, my friend, 
*Twill be because you paid the price — 

For which it ever doth contend — 
A noble life, devoid of vice. 

WHY SHOULD YOU CARE? 

Why should you care if little ones are crying 
For bread to eat about you here and there ? 

Why should you care if older ones are dying 
For lack of nursing? Yes, why should you 
care? 

Why should you care if hands with toil are ach- 
ing, 
And many a brow is darkened with despair? 
196 



Why should you care if hearts with grief are 
breaking, 
What matters it to you? Why should you 
care? 

Why should you care if voices loud are calling 
To have removed from out their path some 
snare 
In which, since they are weak, they e'er are fall- 
ing? 
Why should you hear their cries ? Why should 
you care? 

Why should you care if life seems growing 

cheaper, 

And seeds of vice and wrong are everywhere ? 

Why should you care? Are you your brother's 

keeper ? 

You surely are ! That is why you should care. 

A LAUGH FOR A LAUGH 

Read at the meeting of the Lynn Assembly, 
Wednesday evening, Jan. 26, 1890. 

Do not go through the world with a frown on 
your face. 
As tho' your existence were only a bane; 
There are blessings for each and for all to em- 
brace 
Then laugh, and the great world will laugh 
back again. 

Tho' 'tis proper at times to be grave and sedate, 

To be merry at others is equally plain ; 
And the way, my good friend, to be happy and 
great — 
Is to laugh, and the great world will laugh 
back again. 

197 



A good hearty laugh has been known to cure 
ills 
Which mocked all attempts of the herbs of 
the field ; 
And others, which even a learned doctor's pills 
With all of their power, have failed to make 
yield. 

The brook which flows down o'er the huge 

mountain side 

Rings out with gay laughter in sunshine and 

rain, 

And scatters its blessings to all, far and wide — 

It laughs and the world echoes laughter again. 

The sorrows and trouble which many possess. 
They water each day with the dew of their 
tears. 
When the sunshine of joy, and its sweet cheer- 
fulness 
Would scatter the gloom of their doubtings 
and fears. 

The world is well filled with men wiser than I, 
Yet many of them have this lesson to learn, 

A laugh brings a laugh and a sigh brings a sigh. 
Or, whichever we give, the world gives in re- 
turn. 

Then let us be merry and glad while we may, 
Forgetting at trifles to snarl and complain, 

Resolving anew to be cheerful alway 

And to laugh, that the world may laugh back 
again. 



198 



THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN 

Read on the last day of the Massachusetts 
Senate, June 26, 1903 

When cities feel the Summer Sun, 
And people flee to cooling shores, 

The great playhouses, one by one. 

Turn down their seats, close up their doors. 

So, 'neath the famous State House dome, 
The stage is cleared of actors all — 

Who now seek comforts of a home — 
While silence fills the empty hall. 

Our Stage in speech may preach and teach. 
And much of lasting good instill ; 

But not a play success can reach 
Unless it meet the People's will. 

The people rule — we act for them ; 

'Tis they our services engage ; 
As they may praise us or condemn 

So stands our record on the Stage. 

For the last time the curtain falls; 

Dim grow the lights — the play is o'er : 
While we have had some few recalls; 

We, too, have had our last encore. 

When we began the house was filled ; 

At times attendance smaller grew ; 
Sorne audiences we have chilled, 

But surely we have pleased a few. 

Since we to do our best have tried, 
Still striving well our part to play, ^ 

Some hope, no doubt, that cheers outside 
May greet them on their homeward way. 

199 



A fascination rules this stage, 

Yet it proceeds not from the heart; 

Are we not far behind the age, 

Since here fair .woman has no part ? 

Few dramatists through all the years 
Wrote plays for men alone, — in fact 

Both sexes with their smiles and tears, 
Shakespeare packed into every act. 

When we look o'er our repertoire 
Of plays produced, we call to mind. 

We find them, as in years before, 
Of almost every worth and kind. 

Farce, Melodrama, had its day; 

Then sterling plays the house would fill ; 
Tragedies, too, have held their sway. 

Though interspersed with Vaudeville. 

Next year new actors will appear, — 
The public would see faces new, — 

New voices they delight to hear. 
And as they shine, new stars pursue. 

Yet some of us may come again, 
For actors old are oft returned. 

If to the managers 'tis plain 

The Public's favor they have earned. 

So, close the doors — turn out the lights ! 

Dust settles on the empty chairs ; 
And now another stage invites 

While months are needed for repairs. 

Who'er the actors are next year 

If they be fair or really great. 
It is the wish of each one here 

They add new glory to the State. 

200 



THE LEGISLATIVE CRAZY QUILT 

B,eneath the dome, with scarce a flaw, 
Is where the members patch the law. 
Which to a quilt one might compare, 
Made of small pieces, square by square. 
Each year it seems to larger grow, 
For members to it pieces sew ; 
Each likes to say, with lordly air, 
I added to the quilt one square ; 
And often struggles hard to prove. 
One ugly square he helped remove. 
Their ideas may be called the thread 
The needles speeches penned and read. 
With these they toil the session thro' 
Take out some old and add some new. 
And if the whole is not improved, 
By what is added or removed. 
They can assure their fellow men 
The quilt's no crazier than it's been. 
None even understood it quite, 
So how could we such mysteries right? 
And so they darn and patch and sew, 
Until the long months outward flow. 
Not till, in June, their collars wilt. 
Do they stop tinkering the quilt. 
When growing weary of the toil, 
Each man returns to shop or soil. 
But tho' exhausted and forlorn. 
They go not till their pay they've drawn. 
And next year far o'er hill and plain, 
New members will be sent again 
Beneath this dome of polished gilt. 
To patch anew the crazy quilt. 



201 



POOR MATHEMATICS 

'Tis an enlightened age I own, 

And who to question it would choose ? 

And yet how often may be shown 

That we our knowledge much abuse. 

But are we wise, or only mad, 

When we do what so harms and kills — 
When we life's joys together add, 

Then coolly multiply our ills? 

HE OWED HIMSELF 

The other day when Moneybags closed his career 

on earth 
And people down in Nottoofast rehearsed what 

he was worth, 
One of the town's philosophers, in figuring up his 

pelf, 
Declared that he died much in debt, and even 

owed himself. 

The day he could not see increase his store of 
shining gold 

His temper would become disturbed, then he 
would snarl and scold; 

And since, o'er many trivial things, he would be- 
wail and fret. 

Unto his temper when he died he greatly was in 
debt. 

The things that so delight the eye, the seashore, 
dale and hill. 

That they the storehouse of the mind with high- 
est pleasures fill, 

He never could get time to view, and so of course 
we find 

Old Moneybags was much in debt — to both his 
eyes and mind. 

202 



The kindly deeds that men perform, to help their 

hearts beat true, 
Old Moneybags had not the time the smallest 

one to do ; 
And so when he, the other day, was called from 

earth to part. 
No one in Nottoofast could tell how much he 

owed his heart. 

But our philosopher declares he knew the man 
right well. 

And that, full justice may be done, is not asham- 
ed to tell, 

That from the manner that he lived, when other 
men would feast, 

He owed his stomach, just in meat, a flock of 
sheep at least. 

The moral of my rhyme is this, make not yourself 
a slave, 

And heap up wealth for other folks to fight for 
o'er your grave; 

And, if things turn to shining gold, at your in- 
genious touch, 

Be sure you do not, when you die, owe your own 
self too much. 

WHEN YOU ARE DOWN 

When you are down, it seems so far 

From where you are to where you were — 

As far as earth is from a star ; — 
To try to rise you long demur. 
When you are down. 

When you are down, the arching skies 
As black as midnight clouds appear, 
And naught within the power supplies 
To rid you of your dread and fear — 
When you are down. 
203 



When you are down, how strangely cold 
Become the friends whom once you knew 

From you their skirts in scorn they hold, 
And only coldly look on you 
When you are down. 

When you are down, O wretched state, 
To be beneath the world's cold ban ! 

What nameless pangs of heart await 
The lot of woman, or of man. 
When they are down. 

When you are down, ah ! happy ye. 
If but some friend of days gone by 

Your outstretched hand shall kindly see. 
And but the needed aid supply, 
When you are down. 

CHASING A DOLLAR 

Chasing a dollar both up hill and down; 
Chasing a dollar the length of the town ; 
Chasing a dollar thro' mud and thro' mire ; 
Chasing a dollar thro' water and fire ; 
Chasing a dollar if weary or not ; 
Chasing a dollar thro' no matter what ; 
Chasing a dollar o'er valley and steep ; 
Chasing a dollar awake or asleep. 

Chasing a dollar at noon and at night ; 
Chasing a dollar in darkness and light ; 
Chasing a dollar in sunshine and rain ; 
Chasing a dollar in sickness and pain ; 
Chasing a dollar thro' alley and street ; 
Chasing a dollar in cold and in heat ; 
Chasing a dollar you never will spend ; 
Chasing a dollar e'en down to life's end. 

Chasing a dollar thro' workshop and mart ; 
Chasing a dollar with mind and with heart ; 

204 



Chasing a dollar in fact'ry and mill ; 
Chasing a dollar with hammer and drill ; 
Chasing a dollar with pencil and pen ; 
Chasing a dollar where'er there are men ; 
Chasing o'er mountains, thro' rivers and mines, 
E'en down the path where no sun ever shines. 

Chasing a dollar to build up a name ; 
Chasing a dollar for glory and fame ; 
Chasing a dollar when wearied and tired ; 
Chasing a dollar — the one thing desired ; 
Chasing a dollar where one can be found. 
High on the hills or deep into the ground. 
Chasing a dollar, oh ! poor wretched slave — 
Chasing a dollar, yes, down to the grave. 

A WELCOME TO THE NEW YEAR 

We bid vou a welcome, with both hands extend- 
ed, ^ 
With peal of the bells and the bugle's loud 
blast, 
And wish that your reign be both peaceful and 
splendid. 
And that we may love you, as now, till the 
last! 

We bring you a welcome with songs and with 
dances. 
And strew with good wishes your incoming 
way. 
And greatly desire, as your journey advances, 
To find you as true as we think you today. 

What deep-hidden secrets your months are con- 
taining. 
We only can wonder, we never can guess ; 
With joy in the present, though grief be remain- 
ing, 
Our tender regards ne'er shall grow any less. 
205 



We give you the welcome that's due to a stranger, 
And pray, as the skem of your being untwines, 
The threads may not snarl or too greatly en- 
danger 
The joy of our hearts or the peace of our 
minds. 

Then come, bright New Year, with your smile 

and your jingle. 
With pomp and with splendor denoting your 

rank. 
And, if, with our pleasure, grief's cup you must 

mingle, 
Oh, make it less bitter than some that we drank ! 



TO CROWN THE YEARS 

(With Flowers; to Mrs. Judge Newhall of Lynn, 
on Her Eighty-Second Birthday.) 

This little bunch of April flowers 

I send to you their part to play 
Within the circle of the hours 

Of this, your glad birthday. 

And as their petals you shall view, 
Made beautiful by sun and shade, 

Forget that you are eighty-two, 
And be again a maid — 

A maid with roses in your hair ; 

Standing your mother's door beside — 
A heart devoid of every care. 

And life as yet untried. 

Nay, stop ; my pen has gone astray. 

For, if it robs you of the years. 
It takes life's priceless joys away. 

Just as it does its tears. 

206 



Since none a memory sweet would drown, 
And any change the years would mar, 

Take from my hands these flowers to crown 
The years just as they are. 

WHERE HIS GIFTS WILL GO 

Some quite large folks have talked so loud their 

words have reached my ear, 
They say that I, old Santa Glaus, will not be 

round this year ; 
But, little folks, let not their fears your hopeful 

natures fret, 
Because the children, come what may, I never 

can forget. 

What if the times have been quite hard, they have 

not hardened me. 
The Lord has still allowed to grow for me my 

Christmas tree ; 
And even now, while I am forced to hear what 

big folks say, 
I with my gifts for little folks am loading up my 

sleigh. 

My smile is as it ever was, my cheeks are full as 

red. 
My eyes are just as eager now to find each little 

bed; 
I still adown the chimney tall as noiselessly can 

creep, 
And fill the children's stockings full, while they 

are fast asleep. 

My stock of gifts for little girls was never more 

complete, 
The curls around each fair doll's face were never 

half as sweet; 
And never since the world began were there as 

many toys 

207 



With which to gladden, through the year, the 
hearts of Httle boys. 

So, Httle ones, since the big folks have filled 

their minds with doubt, 
And, from their hearts, where once I dwelt, have 

shut Old Santa out. 
And since your souls are filled with hope, and you 

to me are true, 
I will be round on Christmas Eve and bring my 

gifts to you. 

THE SAND GARDEN 

A portion of the Public Garden in the city of 
Boston is set apart for the exclusive use of small 
children, and is known as the Sand Garden. 

This is the children's kingdom here, 

Where happiness ne'er fails ; 
They in their garments cool appear. 

With carts and spades and pails. 

With every trouble left behind, 

They run and laugh and sing. 
Play leapfrog, if they feel inclined. 

And then enjoy a swing. 

With little shovels caves they dig. 

Then mountains cause to rise, 
Until to them they seem as big 

As those that touch the skies. 

Then with the very greatest care. 

Yet seemingly with ease. 
They people them with beings rare. 

And flowers and plants and trees. 

Long lines of thread they use as wire. 
From tree to tree to lay, 
208 



Which, whensoever they desire, 
Their messages convey. 

Unlike the rest of humankind. 
Naught e'er their planning mars: 

Even with sticks the way they find 
To make a train of cars. 

Cities that men take years to build, 

They in a moment rear; 
And, when they with the wish are filled, 

They make them disappear. 

Tho' the great world has its delights. 

Of which they never dream. 
Secure in all their natural rights, 

Their reign here is supreme. 

And so the gladsome hours go by, 
And naught their joy impairs ; 

Ah, reader, would that you and I 
Could make our world as theirs ! 

HAS NO INTERPRETER 

Between a low mount and a hill, 

Where birchings sway and alders bend, 

And flowers their nameless sweets distil, 
I went one day to meet a friend. 

The joyous birds with voices sweet. 

Poured forth their carols o'er my head; 

While, for the pleasure of my feet. 
Nature's green tapestry was spread. 

No other human soul was near ; 

We had arranged to meet alone. 
In order that no one should hear, 

Tho' high or low might be our tone. 

209 



At the appointed hour we met ; 

His face was lighted by a smile, 
And, even when the sun was set. 

With him I lingered yet a while. 

He told me things I never knew, 

And secrets I had never heard. 
That pierced my very being through, 

So, that I answered not a word. 

And, as my final leave I took. 

Again to him I eager ran. 
And thanked him as true friend — the Brook 

Then started home a wiser man. 

Would you his secrets learn, and own. 

To act upon you as a spur, 
Some day go meet him — but alone — 

My friend has no interpreter. 



A DIFFERENT TENEMENT 

Though rich or poor a man may be, 
His eyes are looking longingly 
For some new home to own or rent — 
Another different tenement. 

The one he occupies today 
Does not quite suit him every way ; 
The site is poor, too big the hall. 
The cellar damp, the bedrooms small. 

The neighborhood is running down. 
Which makes his wife at times to frown 
And somehow things are not the same. 
Since this one went or that one came. 

Good neighbor, I appeal to you — 

Is not this rhyme, though simple, true? 

210 



Are not your heart and mind intent 
Upon a different tenement? 

For rich or poor, though he may be, 
A man is looking constantly 
For a new home to own or rent — 
He wants a different tenement. 

He buys or builds ; and, in a year 
Faults, very many faults, appear, 
To mar his peace or wound his pride. 
And he is still dissatisfied. 

And so the years roll on and out ; 
Dissatisfied he moves about. 
Till with life's hopes and vigor spent. 
He's borne to earth's last tenement. 

But which, as seen by Faith's clear eye. 
Is but the gateway to the sky. 
Where weary pilgrims, worn and bent. 
Pass to a faultless tenement. 



THE STRANGE COMPANION 

No human being e'er can be alone. 

Whether we walk or in a carriage ride. 

Where'er we are, beneath whatever zone. 
There is a strange companion by our side. 

When we start out, if humble we, or great. 

To join a friend or gay society. 
He waits as one who waits beside the gate. 

That he may go and bear us company. 

In youth we look upon him as a foe. 

Against whom we our loved ones must defend, 
But when in age the heart is wrung with woe. 
Men clasp him to their breasts, and call him 
friend. 

211 



No human eye, however keen or bright, 
Has ever seen the outlines of his form; 

Yet he is near us all, both day and night, 
However deep the calm, or wild the storm. 

No human hand has ever touched his palm ; 

No human cheek has ever felt the breath 
Of him who bears a scythe upon his arm, — 

This strange companion, whom mankind calls 
Death. 

OUR LOCAL SAGE 

There is a man in Nottoofast 

Whom folks call out of tune. 
Since through the town he oft has passed 

With arctics on in June. 
And often in the winter drear, 

When winds are cold and raw. 
He will upon the streets appear 

In an old hat of straw. 

At noonday, when most people eat 

With relish and delight. 
For any kind of fish or meat 

He has no appetite ; 
But when the food is put away. 

And dishes, too, with care, 
"I am," you oft will hear him say, 

"As hungry as a bear." 

At night, when most of folks retire 

To get their needed sleep, 
He seems possessed with a desire 

Awake awhile to keep; 
But mornings, when 'tis time to rise. 

The day's task to pursue, 
His folks would have a great surprise 

If he should get up, too. 

212 



Oft when the atmosphere is moist 

And clouds sweep o'er the plain, 
And people their umbrellas hoist 

To shield them from the rain, 
Without one he his way pursues 

And seems to fear no harm; 
But when the sun his power renews 

He has one 'neath his arm. 

When the majority of folks 

Think this or that should be. 
With you, no matter how you coax. 

He will not then agree. 
So much in self he does confide. 

He wants a thing begun 
When you are quite well satisfied 

That nothing could be done. 

This man, whose name I will withhold. 

Nor e'en hint at his age. 
Can neither be bribed, bought nor sold. 

For he's our local sage; 
And though he oft stands all alone. 

And in it takes delight. 
Oft-times the people have to own 

That he alone was right. 

PRESENTATION VERSES 

The little heiress that entered the household 
of Senator Michael J. Sullivan, on May ist, has 
been honored as no other Massachusetts baby, a 
baby-carriage having been presented to her, 
through her father, by the Massachusetts Sen- 
ate, May 13th, igo:^. — Boston Post. 

We gather here, this happy day, 

To show regard for one we like, 
For, on the first fair morn of May, 

An angel came to bless you, Mike. 

213 



We wish the child and mother joy, 

With radiant skies to cheer Hfe's way ; 

And though you may have wished a boy, 
Men cannot always have their say. 

As Mayflower she is fair and sweet; 

Too mild of temper yet to strike, 
With tiny hands and chubby feet; 

And just the image of you, Mike. 

To take a little look ahead — 

A father's life finds much that charms ; 
We think we hear your midnight tread 

With sleepless baby in your arms. 

Sometimes, perhaps, when mother's out, 
Your voice will drown the baby's cry, 

Singing, in dulcet tones, no doubt, 
Your little darling's lullaby. 

Yet warm congratulations, Mike! 

Such blessings should upon you fall ; 
Tis just what Teddy said he'd like, 

And what he recommends to all. 

No one feels richer than you, Mike ; 

Yours is an enviable lot; 
More than the wealth of all Klondike, 

You prize that precious little tot. 

Each member of the Senate feels. 
As she's too small to ride a bike, 

A dainty carriage with four wheels 
Would better suit your baby, Mike, 

So Brackett, with purse deep and wide. 
The purchase made, with little talk, 

In order that your child might ride — 
While you, behind it, have to walk. 

?14 



Our dearest wish is, she may bless 

Your home through all life's happy span, 

And ne'er possess a virtue less 

Than does her dad — Mike Sullivan. 

CAPITAL AND LABOR 

(Earth's Greatest Giants) 

As twins are we, in power strong and great, 

And to the other each a perfect mate ; 

So near we are in stature, form and size, 

That if one falls the other cannot rise. 

Born the same hour, and nurtured at one breast, 

Each has in each a common interest ; 

If one does well, the other shares his gain; 

If one is wronged, the other suffers pain ; 

When greed steps in and whispers words of 

pride, 
And seeks thereby our union to divide, 
If we but listen to the siren's song, 
We do ourselves thereby the greatest wrong, 
While foes of happiness alone delight 
In seeing us, earth's greatest giants fight. 

The world is glad when we our hands unite ; 
Then hopes run high and every heart is light ; 
The farmer sows his seed with joyous feet, 
Because he sees a market for his wheat ; 
The lab'ring man goes home at night to rest, 
Happy the day his every want has blest ; 
The factory chimney, sending smoke on high, 
The rich man's and the poor man's wants supply ; 
The furnace fires glow bright on every hand. 
And roads of iron span the prosp'rous land ; 
The clerk, the student and the banker, too, 
Each in their way their daily task pursue. 
With looks and words that men can now afford, 
For Wealth has shared with Labor its reward. 

215 



When we fall out how little can be done ; 
When we combine what triumphs may be won; 
Each ton of coal, that's taken from the mine, 
Requires that we our powers should combine ; 
What art could build a bridge, when plans were 

made, 
Should Labor's arm refuse to lend its aid ? 
Who could construct a fact'ry or a shoe, 
If, from the compact Wealth the means with- 
drew? 
The mightiest mill, the shortest peg in length, 
Is the result of our united strength. 
If Labor wants a home in which to dwell. 
And digs a cellar, it becomes a well. 
If Wealth from him should hold himself aloof, 
Nor furnish means with which to lay the roof. 
Yes, we are two, and yet so near alike. 
To harm the one the other is to strike ; 
Whoe'er does any wrong in cither's name. 
To that extent, the other does defame ; 
To deal to Labor an unfriendly blow. 
On Capital the wound will somewhere show; 
The blood that from the one doth trickle down. 
Will but besmear, despoil, the other's gown. 
Then if you turn, and look in either face. 
You see reflected the two-fold disgrace; 
Then, since we both are one, and yet are two. 
Let us for each our mission still pursue ; 
On one broad platform still in friendship stand, 
That peace may reign, and plenty fill the land ! 

THE FLAME FIGHTERS 

I do not come, good friends, to sing of heroes 

brave and bold, 
Who, with their knightly armor on, fought well 

in days of old ; 
I do not seek with plaintive notes to fill your 

list'ning ear, 

23 fi 



Or, 'mong your heart-strings, touch one chord to 

force from you a tear. 
My humble muse will not attempt to cross the 

border land 
Where lovers sip the bliss of heaven as they walk 

hand in hand ; 
A diif'rent theme, but one as grand, my lyre's 

best effort claims, 
I sing in honor of the men who fight the fiendish 

flames. 

The man who draws his burnished steel, his 

country's cause to save, 
Should have in life a worthy place, in death an 

honored grave; 
The man who at the helm stands when waves 

like fiends disport. 
And keeps the vessel on her course and brings 

her safe to port, 
Should have, as every one who does his duty as 

it comes. 
The praise that outlasts bugle shrieks, and beat 

of martial drums ; 
And since we know your honored craft to do its 

duty aims, 
We give the measure of our praise to you, who 

fight the flames. 

You little know when you go forth, at morning 

or at night. 
The strength and venom of the fiend that you are 

called to fight. 
He may be easy to subdue; or, in his awful 

breath, 
May lurk the poison of a sting to lure you to 

your death; 
But, since if he an infant be or in his fury great, 
You do your duty, one and all, and leave the rest 

to fate. 

217 



We write on arches wide as heaven the record of 

the names 
Of our brave, worthy sons who shriek defiance 

at the flames. 



HURRAH FOR THE BUILDERS OF 

LYNN 

Hurrah for the men who have courage, 

Not idly to wait, but to do ; 
Who tear down the useless and worthless, 

And build in their places things new ! 
Alas, for the men who stand waiting! 

A cheer for the men who begin ! 
We hail you as having a mission, 

Ye framers and builders of Lynn ! 

We like well the man who's done planning. 

And fully his plan understands ; 
Who has laid in his brain the foundations. 

And now rears the walls with his hands. 
The man who says wait, and stands doubting, 

A victory never will win ; 
Hurrah for the men who are building 

A grand and more beautiful Lynn ! 

Three cheers for the men of ambition, 

Who cheap, wooden structures lay low. 
In order that, when they have vanished. 

Their places improvements may show. 
Of brick and of stone and of iron. 

With marble and beauty within — 
Hurrah for the vanguard of Progress, 

Hurrah for the builders of Lynn! 

Hurrah for the men who have money ; 

The men who have brain and a heart. 
Who struggle with brawn and with muscle 

To do in the building their part ! 

218 



Hurrah for the strong hands of labor 

That carry a purpose within ! 
Hurrah for the thinkers and workers, 

The builders and makers of Lynn ! 

THE BOUNDS ARE SET 

Every man is the center of a circle whose fatal 
circumference he cannot pass. 

— Hon. John James Ingalls, 

I do not toil and strive with hope of winning 

More than a meager share ; 
I do it partly to keep free from sinning 

And not quite to despair. 

So many days I've labored, planned and striven, 

That I am satisfied 
To my weak hands it never will be given 

To clasp things vast and wide. 

With hope to spur me on, I have endeavored 

Still active to be found, 
And yet the ladder over me was severed 

Just ere I reached the round. 

What tho' the ocean chafe the shore and 
worry — 

And like chained monster fret! 
And what tho' I may toil, and scheme and hurry ! 

Like it, my bounds are set. 

BETTER THINGS 

Better a name and life unstained ; 

Better be pure without, within, 
Than, having wealth and titles gained, 

Have souls defiled by guilt and sin. 

219 



Better a heart renewed by love; 

Better supply another's need, 
And have the smile of Him above, 

Than live but selfish aims to breed. 

Better a prayer of simple speech. 
Such as our God delights to hear, 

Than with large words a sermon preach, 
Arranged to please the human ear. 

Better have one to know thy worth, 
And love thee for that worth alone — 

Than be the richest man on earth 
And have no one to call thine own. 

Better to live some heart to cheer; 

Better to die some soul to save, 
Than have a mocking crowd draw near 

To drop their tears upon thy grave. 

Better to watch a bright sundown. 
Than see it rise clear in the East ; 

Better at last to wear a crown, 

Than hold the best seat at earth's feast. 



YOUNG HOPEFUL 

You all know young Hoj>eful — he lives in your 

town — 
Yet ne'er have you seen on his features a frown ; 
No matter how many their cheerfulness lose, 
He never is down with a case of the blues. 

The world may look dark to the rest of mankind, 
But naught can disturb his own sweet peace of 

mind; 
The sun may not shine out today in the east, 
Still this does not ruffle young Hopeful the least. 

220 



When you are dejected, just loan him your ear, 
And this is the message you always will hear: 
"Tomorrow the sun thro' the heavens will ride, 
And joy and contentment will walk by your 
side." 

"Cheer up!" is the watchword he brings you 

each morn, 
And pulls from your heart by his presence its 

thorn ; 
And tells you, in words what you know well is 

true, 
"If you would be happy, just do as I do ! 

"Look not every morn on the dark side of things ; 

Give the hopes that you cherish new songs and 
new wings ; 

Every day count your fears, and then call them 
one less ; 

And hopefulness soon will your whole life pos- 
sess." 



MY BRIDGE 

Although my hands and arms are not o'er strong, 
And lack the stamp of a skilled artisan, 

I have been working patiently and long 

Upon a bridge of doubtful length and span. 

I cannot tell how long it will require 

My bridge in all its sections to complete; 

But since a glorious hope my hands inspire, 
My labor each succeeding hour is sweet. 

Sometimes I just a fleeting moment stand 
To count the timbers, and across them run, 

And then I feel my breast with pride expand. 
Because each seems to me a victory won. 

221 



The stream it is to span some days seems bright, 
And sunbeams dance upon its bosom clear; 

Again the waters grow as black as night, 
And often fill my soul with doubt and fear. 

But then I turn mine eyes up to the sky, 

And though upon me falls the dew and rain, 

I all the faster saw and hammer ply. 
And never stop to murmur or complain. 

Often until the midnight hour late 

To build my bridge I all my efforts bend, 

Trusting, some day, that I can truly state — 
Behold 'tis now complete from end to end. 

And this my prayer: that, when my bridge is 
done, 

The structure will so good and perfect be 
I may pass over it at set of sun, 

To where a loved one stands and waits for me. 



222 



